


i hope that you catch me ('cause i'm already falling)

by RoachIsJudgingYou



Series: catch me [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!, Angst, Bath Time, Cuddles, Drunk Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Gen, Geralt is a dumbass, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier knows, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, OR IS IT, One-Sided Attraction, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach is So Done (The Witcher), Self-Esteem Issues, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Sleep talking, So is jaskier, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, am i projecting?, and the rest of his witchery traits, chireadan is honestly so underrated and i love him, chireadan ships it, geralt allows it just this once, geralt is SOFT, geralt is a stubborn bastard, he thinks they're very sexy, jaskier is competent, jaskier is fascinated with Geralt's fangs, listen jaskier just wants to take care of his stubborn witcher, lots of soft mushy cuddles, no beta we die like renfri, seriously how do you tag things, sex is implied but not explicit, you betcha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoachIsJudgingYou/pseuds/RoachIsJudgingYou
Summary: Geralt is tired. Jaskier notices, just a bit too late.or,What if they hadn’t awoken the djinn?Title stolen from arms by Christina Perri.05/19/2020: there is now a companion piece to this work:it hit me like a hammer
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: catch me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753990
Comments: 135
Kudos: 1001
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Never thought you'd be the one

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic, so take it easy on me! I’ve been tempted numerous times to enter the world of writing fanfic, but I’ve never really felt the pull until I entered the Witcher fandom. I’m finally deciding to write on my own, so we’ll see how this goes.  
> This fic takes place immediately before Episode 5 (Bottled Appetites) of the Netflix Series and then diverges from canon. I’m working with a limited amount of knowledge because I only just started reading the books and I haven’t played the games. I adore Geraskier’s dynamic and I love Yen, but I’m not sure if she’ll make it into this fic. I’ll just have to see where it takes me. It’s been years since I’ve written anything for non-academic purposes, so my writing’s more rusty than I’d like. This is un-beta’d, so any mistakes are entirely my own. Rated teen for swearing.

Geralt’s eye twitched. While Roach’s steady footfalls were usually calming, he was growing more irritable with every step. He was still two days out from the nearest town, a hamlet small enough that he wasn’t sure if it had a name. Experience told him that there was always an inn (hopefully hospitable to witchers, but he was no stranger to sleeping on the forest floor) where he could _maybe,_ just _maybe,_ get some rest. The comforting void of sleep had been calling to him, but hard as he’d tried, he’d found that he couldn’t answer. 

Maybe it had been more than days. Definitely more than days. It was somewhere between weeks and months, since he’d last gotten any substantial amount of real sleep. He was quickly learning that while meditation could be used as a substitute for a short time, it was not a long-term alternative to real rest. He wasn’t really sure how long it had been--it became difficult to keep track of that sort of thing after the days all started to blend together. It was to the point now that he could barely function, and the worst part about it was that he knew exactly _who_ and _what_ to blame for it. Not that it really mattered since nothing could be done about the situation. 

It was really a two-part problem. One was of a more emotional matter than the other, but they were equally pressing in Geralt’s mind. There was, of course, the matter with the Child Surprise, but that wasn’t to be dealt with for some time now. He could avoid that one for a few years longer, though he wasn’t sure how _much_ longer that would be. He was used to that stressor being a constant source of headaches for the past seven years. 

The other issue was one that had only begun to plague him in recent months, since he had been forced to acknowledge that he did, in fact, have feelings. He hadn’t seen Jaskier in months, since separating for the winter, and it was the first time since he had come to know the bard that he had missed him with such fervor. Jaskier had left him with a sweet farewell, but nothing really all that different from their usual goodbyes. That was the routine. Geralt would go to Kaer Morhen with the rest of the Wolves, and Jaskier would travel to Oxenfurt to teach and take a break from the travels that he had come to enjoy so much. Jaskier had invited him to stay at Oxenfurt with him this past winter, but Geralt, too afraid of his own growing attachment to the bard, had muttered something about _coin_ and _training._ Jaskier had, of course, accepted the excuses without argument and wished him safe travels.

The winter at Kaer Morhen had been a much needed respite for Geralt. He had used it to update the library with more accurate information and relax, in a witchery sort of way. He would still go out and hunt meals regularly, and kept up his training, but he had found that he’d had too much time to _think._ He’d been unable to escape his own thoughts for most of the season, even the company of his brothers not enough to drown out the blooming realization that he may have been more attached to the stubborn bard than he had originally thought. He had nearly driven Eskel and Lambert up the walls, and he had the sense that they weren’t too sorry to finally escape his company.

But now it was warm again, and he had said his goodbyes at Kaer Morhen and begun the familiar routine of searching for contracts. He only realized that the numerous sleepless nights were catching up with him when he began losing stretches of time during the days, unsure of what exactly had transpired except that it usually led him to an all too quiet campsite or a room at a shitty inn somewhere that felt just a little too big with only one person.

Instead of being concerned, as he should have been, he ignored it along with the growing list of alarming symptoms that he was experiencing on a regular basis. A deep ache had settled into his bones, and although Geralt knew it was likely that he was sick, there was little to be done when traveling alone. He couldn’t exactly stop taking contracts. He had to pay for his potions and the occasional stay at an inn somehow.

Years ago, if someone had told Geralt that he would grow exceedingly fond of the bard who had introduced himself with bread in his pants, he probably would have responded with a solid punch to the gut and a disgruntled _hmm._ As it was, it was largely due to his absence that sleep had begun to evade him with great enthusiasm. Although Geralt told himself that he would never actually admit it out loud, he had grown quite fond of the incessant chatter and melodic backdrop that had accompanied his travels. 

And fuck, if that wasn’t a sign that the quiet was starting to get to him. His thoughts were too fucking loud without the bard to drown them out, blessed silence be damned.

It didn’t really feel like it had been that long since Jaskier had sauntered into his life, barely contained energy and lewd jokes and undisguised, unrelenting affection. During that time, the pair (friends? The witcher was terrified of acknowledging _that_ particular truth, for fear of what could happen if he got attached. He carefully ignored that he was already two decades too far down that path to turn back now) had traveled together, and he had found himself realizing that the loneliness wasn’t as nice as he’d told himself for most of his long life. 

Geralt knew, of course, deep down, why he couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts from wandering back to the soft tenor of Jaskier’s voice, comforting in a way that he had never known. To those cornflower blue eyes that held depths of a past that hadn’t been quite as kind as he pretended. To the familiar spicy scent of rosin and chamomile and love. Geralt knew of the reason behind his wandering imagination. He often wondered how it would feel to allow more than the briefest of touches, to indulge in the simple comfort of casual kisses and holding hands. But those ideas were dangerous and would only lead to heartbreak, so he always took care to stifle and smother them until being around the bard was bearable again. Still, it _hurt_ in a way Geralt was becoming horribly used to, knowing that the bard would never have the same feelings. After all, even though he handed out his love generously and without restraint, the bard had to draw the line somewhere.

So Geralt pretended and suffered in silence that he hoped wasn’t too obvious. After all, witchers don’t _feel._ Simply can’t afford to.

Roach whuffed. Geralt was abruptly pulled out of his spiraling train of thought by the sound and reminded of how achingly _tired_ he was. He longed for the blessed relief of darkness to take him, even if it was only for a few hours. He couldn’t focus on any one thing for more than a few moments before his gaze drifted without his permission, unfocused and frustratingly out of control. It wouldn’t be long before monster hunting became a liability to his safety; Geralt knew his own limits and he was barrelling towards them at an alarming pace. He had tried drowning everything out with shitty, piss-tasting ale at shitty, piss-scented inns numerous times to no avail. Even the inevitable weariness that always plagued him after hunts did little for his predicament. Whether he was semi-comfortable at an inn or laying in his bedroll with rocks digging into his spine, the results were always the same. 

He knew the cure. It was simple enough, and it required the presence of one musically inclined wandering bard. But first, he had to find the man. They hadn’t exactly come to the agreement that they would seek each other out after the winter had finished, but it had become an unspoken part of their strange arrangement that they would cross paths before midsummer. And so he found himself on a near desperate search, trailing the man across the Continent. Geralt knew he was getting closer--he had once again begun to hear talk of a bard singing of adventures both grand and wonderous, and whisperings of the White Wolf followed him once more. But catching up to him was proving a damn sight harder than he had anticipated.

Roach faltered slightly, her usually confident gait hindered by exhaustion, and Geralt swayed in his seat. Looking up from the trail to the tree-lined sky above him, he realized the sun had sunk low enough that stars freckled the deep blue. Humming an apology, he patted his mare’s neck affectionately. He hardly remembered mounting this morning, let alone the day’s ride. An irritated grunt found its way out of his throat--losing awareness of his surroundings was foolish and would likely prove lethal one day if he wasn’t careful. He gently dug his heels into Roach’s flank, urging her into a faster pace as he searched for a suitable place to camp for the night. 

An hour or so later, a fire was crackling merrily into the quiet darkness, mocking him with its cheer as he stared forlornly into the flames. A stick held loosely in one hand, he poked aimlessly at the coals.

He had briefly entertained thoughts of hunting for his dinner, but he knew that without his usual focus, it would prove fruitless and invite unnecessary danger. Instead, he chose to stay at the campsite, and picketed Roach not too far away to munch on some grass. 

If he closed his eyes and imagined, he could almost hear Jaskier prattling on about one thing or another, asking his opinion on a new verse before continuing on without allowing the time for Geralt to grunt a response. The bard had become surprisingly good at interpreting what his noncommittal noises meant, even when the witcher himself was unsure of what he was trying to say.

That was what he missed the most. Jaskier’s simple understanding. The tactful interruptions of his thoughts when he began to shut down, filling the deafening silence with sweet nothings. The careful insertion of his own, much more eloquent conversation in situations when Geralt was clearly uncomfortable or out of his element. The warm touches on his elbow or back when he said something that the bard had found particularly amusing, gestures of comfort when the hatred of the humans became just a bit too much for him to take with his chin up. Everything was so much _easier_ and the world was always a little bit brighter with his bard by his side. 

Jaskier knew, and Geralt knew that Jaskier knew, that contrary to popular belief, witchers were capable of such things as emotions. Though Geralt would always grunt in a way that anyone who knew him would interpret as vehement denial, Jaskier was quite privy to Geralt’s inner turmoil and the troubles of witchers. He’d been around the grumpy white-haired wolf long enough to know. 

Geralt growled discontentedly and laid out his bedroll, resigning himself to yet another restless night. Crawling under the scratchy blanket, he rolled over and pretended to sleep as his thoughts rose in volume to drown out the night.

___

The sun rose the next morning on a campsite that hadn’t seen sleep. Grunting with the effort, Geralt stood and pointedly ignored the brutal head rush that came with the action, rolling his bedroll haphazardly. He really should have just left it folded in his saddlebags, because he had known even as he had dismounted Roach that attempting sleep was an exercise in futility. Kicking dust over the smoldering remains of the fire, Geralt made quick work of the campsite and was soon ready for another day of travel. Less so for another day trapped in his own head.

As the chill of the night began to wear off, the sun made for what Geralt was certain was pleasant traveling weather. At first, he tried to ignore the trickles of sweat traveling down his face, making his hair stick unpleasantly to his forehead. Finally, he could take it no longer and stripped his stifling armor as quickly as his weary body would allow it. Witchers tended to run hot, but this was unusual even for him. The heat only seemed to aggravate the discomfort in his joints, and the bright sunlight stabbing into his eyes felt not unlike a concussive blow to the head.

Some undefinable amount of time later, Geralt found himself muzzily considering an idea that a more rested, less miserable version of himself would have immediately rejected. He had dim memories from the last time he had traveled through this area; local legend had it that a mage had discarded a djinn in a body of water not too far from his current destination. Perhaps it was still there after all of these years.

It was a foolish plan borne of desperation. Even if the djinn _was_ real, and where they said it was, it would be nothing short of suicidal to use such volatile magic in order to catch a few winks. Djinns could be useful, but they were also vengeful creatures when placed in shackles. There was no telling what the outcome could be, should Geralt choose to follow through on his plan. 

The idea was tempting, though. _So tempting,_ Geralt thought, as he scrubbed a hand over his tired face. It had been decades since he had felt such utter exhaustion; something had to be done. Even as he acknowledged the rashness of his plan, he urged Roach on, decision already made.

Three long, sweaty hours later saw Geralt fishing in a way that any onlooker would have described as panicked, had the fisherman not been a witcher. But witchers don’t panic.

Roach was peacefully grazing just off the shore of the pond, her reins lazily thrown over a branch in a way that spoke the action was more out of habit than any real desire to keep the mare from wandering. 

“What the _fuck_ am I doing?” Geralt muttered, throwing the net into the murky brown water for what felt like the thousandth time. A tremor ran through his hands, but he deliberately ignored it. Roach observed detachedly from her spot on the bank-- _you fool,_ her steady gaze seemed to say.

“You’ve been with me this long, you must be used to this by now.” He called back, not looking at her.

“As a matter of fact, _this--_ this is a bit new even for me, old friend.”

Geralt whirled violently at the voice, reaching for a sword he already knew wasn’t on his back. The alarm was brief, though, as he recognized the familiar face of Jaskier, tipsy and unsteady on the shore. Despite his clearly inebriated state, he really was such a sight for sore eyes. Geralt inhaled deeply, reveling in the comforting scent of _home._

The witcher stood straight for a moment and feigned disinterest while drinking in the presence of Jaskier, feeling the painful tugging on his heartstrings stop for the briefest of moments. The bard was clearly rather distressed about something, and if the sadness practically dripping off of him wasn’t enough of a tipoff, the bottle of strong-smelling alcohol in his hand certainly was.

“What, those witchery senses of yours didn’t warn me? How did you manage to miss _my,”_ He placed his hand on his chest and bowed mockingly, “angelic voice? What’s it been? Months? Years? What is time, anyway?”

_Too long,_ the witcher supplied helpfully in his head. Perturbed that he hadn’t noticed the bard’s undoubtedly noisy approach, he deigned not to answer, tossing the net once more.

“Are you following me, you scamp?” Geralt focused on keeping his breathing even, daring his body to betray the relief he felt at the presence of his friend. A mask of indifference slipped into place as they fell into the familiar one-sided interaction. _Of course_ he had been following Jaskier. That was the whole point. 

“I mean, I’m flattered and everything, but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days.” Another swig. The scent of spirits wafted through the air, and Geralt’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. He pressed his lips together tightly.

“Ugh, do you want some?” He didn’t bother to look at the proffered bottle, fear of what little was in his stomach coming back up forbidding it.

“How are you doing? I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me.” Jaskier’s voice faded to background noise and Geralt tried to disguise another dizzy spell as reeling the net in. A pang of jealousy hit him unexpectedly at the mention of Jaskier’s lover--he choked it out mercilessly. He’d done nothing to earn the bard’s affections, no right to feel such envy.

“Oh, are we not using ‘friend?’ Yeah, sure, let’s just give it another decade. Geralt, you’re fantastic at a great many things, but clearly fishing is not one of them. Have you caught _anything_ today? What are you fishing for exactly?” He pointedly ignored the bard. It was too hard to keep track of his breakneck one-sided conversations on a good day. In his current state, he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself to carry on a conversation.

But Jaskier kept talking and pestering, and now he was listing off types of fish in an effort to get Geralt to reply.

“I’m not fishing. I can’t sleep.”

“Right. Good. Well--that, makes sense. Insomuch that it sort of...doesn’t. What’s going on, Geralt? Talk to me.” He felt his heart warm at the note of concern in his voice, just the thought that the bard cared enough to be worried almost enough to make him break down on the spot. His hands trembled again as he pulled the net in, empty once more. A wet slap echoed across the water as he threw it back.

Realizing he owed the bard some sort of response, Geralt sighed and took a moment to gather his thoughts. Fixing the younger man with an unfocused gaze, he spoke two words:

“A djinn.”

“A what?”

“I’m looking--for a djinn.”

“For a dj--for a djinn? A dj--like a genie?” Jaskier chuckled somewhat nervously before continuing, “The floaty fellas with the..the bad tempers and the banned magics, that kind of genie?” Disbelief laced his voice. No way Geralt was _actually_ this stupid.

“Yes.” And now Jaskier was laughing, “It’ll grant me wishes, it’s in this lake somewhere, and I _can’t fucking sleep!”_ A pause.

Damn. He hadn’t meant to snap, but what was done was done. Jaskier’s face cycled through a range of emotions in the span of a second: amused, shocked, and back to a disbelieving sort of concern. He leaned against a tree casually, realizing he was going to have to talk the oblivious witcher down from the ledge he had backed himself onto. Despite his own compromised state, he was able to see that the witcher was not his usual self. His usually pale complexion was worse than usual, spots of color high on his cheekbones while the rest of his face had taken on a ghostly appearance. Sweat dotted his brow and there was a wild, unfocused look in his golden eyes that spoke volumes about his mental state. And the “not sleeping” part of the whole ordeal was written all over his body: the slump of his shoulders, the deep circles under his eyes, the weariness of his stance. Whatever had been troubling the man had certainly taken its toll. 

“I don’t mean to play priest’s ear, or anything, but _has_ it occured to you that maybe we’re merely rubbing salve on a tumor? Not exactly addressing the root cause of the problem? Hm? I mean maybe, just maybe, this whole sleeplessness-ness,” Jaskier gestured vaguely at the sorry state Geralt was in as he talked further down the shore, “has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra?” Beginning to take another swig and finding his container empty, he tossed it on the ground and put his hands on his hips in a way that Gerald found strangely endearing.

“You know, the Law of Surprise? Destiny?” When Geralt didn’t respond, he pushed again.

“Being unable to escape the child that _belongs to you,_ et cetera, et cetera?”

“No!” Geralt grunted, far too quickly. His filter was suffering under the weight of stress. “It’s not that.” Even as he said it, he could see the gears in Jaskier’s brain turning. He had always been an open book to the man, and it was growing dangerous. Geralt felt his face heat up, but he was hard pressed to determine if the cause was from embarrassment or the oppressive heat.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” The bard said. Geralt’s shoulders slumped in relief, and the bard jumped.

“But what if you’re not?” Silently, the witcher looked up, irritated and exasperated.

“You know, the Countess de Stael once said to me that destiny is just the embodiment of the soul’s desire to grow.” Desperate to change the topic of conversation before it ventured into dangerous territory, Geralt settled on the one jab he _knew_ would derail the bard’s nagging. Kneeling down in the mud to check his haul once more, he drove home.

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Not catching on at first, Jaskier replied.

“I did, actually, and she--why, _what are you implying?”_

Geralt just looked up again the ghost of a smirk playing across his features as he feigned innocence. He may have felt like shit, but that didn’t stop him from teasing the man. 

“Oh, hohohoho, we are _so_ having this conversation,” Jaskier stood up from where he had been sitting, wagging one finger dangerously in the air between them.

“Come on, Geralt. Tell me. Be honest. How’s. My. Singing?”

Geralt tossed the net once more, laughing inwardly even as he regretted moving. 

“It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.” Oh. Geralt fought the urge to wince as soon as the words left his mouth, the delivery not as lighthearted as he would have liked.

Jaskier reeled as if he had been slapped. Gaping like a fish, he flailed for words as he prepared to lay into Geralt.

“Whuh--YOU!” He punctuated the word with a sharp jab in Geralt’s direction, “NEED A _NAP!”_ Geralt felt an argument simmering as he _finally_ reeled in what he had been searching for.

“I mean, are you _trying,”_ Jaskier exclaimed, his voice cracking, “ _to hurt my feelings, Geralt?_ It’s down--downright indecorous of you, if I’m completely honest, and--what, whoa, whoa, _wow,_ what is that?” Geralt untangled the amphora from the net, overbalancing slightly as he stood back up. It was complete with a tightly wedged cork, an intricate design carved into the top. 

“It’s a wizard’s seal. The djinn.” For the first time in weeks, Geralt allowed some of the tension to bleed out of his shoulders. His troubles were finally over. Jaskier gave him an unreadable look of scrutiny.

“No. Absolutely not. You’re clearly not thinking straight, for one, because the Geralt _I_ know would never be so foolish. Even I know not to fuck with something like this. Who are you? What have you done with my witcher?” Jaskier accused, poking him hard in the shoulder. He grabbed one of the handles, tugging lightly on the piece of pottery.

Geralt, for his part, was so caught off guard by the phrase _my witcher,_ he ended up mirroring the bard’s earlier impression of a fish as he tried to come up with an argument. After several silent moments, Jaskier spoke again.

“I’m not letting you open this--this _fancy flowerpot,_ Geralt. Gods, it’s probably cursed or something, with your luck.” When Geralt still didn’t release his grip, Jaskier pulled again, much harder. 

“Geralt, there’s a _reason_ this thing was in the pond. Melitele’s tits, I’m not usually the one to speak reason. What’s gotten into you?” The bard’s brow furrowed in concern. Geralt felt something inside of him stir at the thought that the bard actually cared, but his usually plodding heartbeat had picked up to something much more akin to a human’s, and he _really_ wanted some damn sleep.

“Jaskier.” A warning.

“Geralt.” A plea. 

Jasier knew very well that if the witcher wanted to, he could easily overpower him. Though, now that he was taking a closer look at the man, he wasn’t so sure. Temperature rarely affected the witcher, and it was a perfectly wonderful day in his opinion. But Geralt looked like a drowned rat, he was so drenched in his own sweat, and he wasn’t so much looking at Jaskier as he was staring at a space somewhere beyond his shoulder. His hands were trembling slightly by his sides and the bags under his eyes contrasted sharply with the unusual paleness of his skin.

“You look like shit, Geralt. Why don’t you just drop the djinn, we’ll go into town, and we can get you a nice room, and you can sleep there, hmm?”

He didn’t respond, instead tightening his white-knuckled grip on the amphora in an attempt to yank it from Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier pulled back with as much force. 

Geralt jerked back with such extreme strength that he ended up stumbling backwards, the amphora sailing out of his grip and disappearing into the far side of the lake with a distant splash. Jaskier stared, wide-eyed, where it had fallen, and then back at Geralt, who seemed to still be registering what had happened. 

“Now, Geralt--”

“ _Dammit, Jaskier!”_ Face contorting with rage, or maybe it was a grimace, the witcher leapt to his feet, ready to throttle the bard.

Then, just as Jaskier was certain he was about to meet an untimely demise, Geralt came to a halt with a wavering step. 

Geralt blinked rapidly, trying to clear the black spots that were suddenly dancing across his vision. The brief tussle with Jaskier had exhausted the reserves of energy he had left, and he felt his consciousness retreating. Jaskier was doubling in front of him, and then he was falling.


	2. You see right through my walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's done this before. It's just, usually there aren't so many feelings involved. At least, on Geralt's end.  
> Also, when did Geralt get so fucking heavy??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to apologize for the delay--writing fanfic takes a lot more time than I thought it would, and writer’s block is truly a bitch. I'd also like to note that I have a much greater appreciation for all of the incredibly long fics I've read in the past--without pages, it's easy to lose track of how much there actually IS. 
> 
> I’ve been working on this for a while every day between studio classes since I posted the first chapter. To make it up to you all, here is a longer chapter with a hefty helping of competent!Jaskier and Geralt being a completely oblivious pining idiot. POV switches back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt throughout this chapter. Hope you all enjoy! Rest assured, there is more to come, though it could take a week or so.

Jaskier saw what was about to happen about three seconds before the whole thing played out rather theatrically. Three seconds, he decided, was _not_ enough time to prepare an adequate response.

In his head, it all worked out quite romantically; in this hypothetical world, Jaskier would of course be both strong and graceful enough for Geralt to swoon perfectly into his outstretched arms. He would gaze adoringly up as he held him, Jaskier would triumphantly plant a tender but fierce kiss on the witcher’s lips, and then they would make love somewhere far away from the stinking shore of the lake.

What _actually_ happened was much less song-worthy, the bard lamented. He cursed the alcohol in his blood for slowing his reaction time; his delay meant that Geralt pitched forward ungracefully into what was certainly a less-than pleasant faceful of mud while Jaskier scrambled to soften his fall at the very least. Everything was a right mess by the time it was all said and done, with Jaskier uncomfortably wedged halfway under the witcher’s formidable dead weight, his elaborate and nearly brand-new doublet a complete loss. The mud squelched uncomfortably underneath him, and he tried not to dwell on the destruction of a _very expensive_ outfit. If it weren’t for the fact that Geralt was very much _not ok,_ and also currently crushing him, he might have scolded the other man.

Roach neighed halfheartedly from her spot a distance away, clearly trying to decide if the whole ordeal was worth the abandonment of her patch of grass. After a moment of deliberation, he decided that the grumbling bard had it under control, and went back to nibbling. Jaskier rolled his eyes and addressed the mare sarcastically.

“Yes, alright, Roach! Thank you for asking, but I actually have this whole thing _completely_ under control. You just watch--” the mare huffed in a disbelieving way that Jaskier would interpret as amusement, if he didn’t know any better. Though there were days that he wondered if the witcher had passed on some of his unusual characteristics to his horse.

“Really, Geralt, we have to talk about your excessive eating habits. You could stand to lose a few pounds.” Jaskier’s legs were slowly going numb where they were still trapped under Geralt’s body, and he was having very limited success with moving the limp figure off of his own. He shoved at the broad shoulders, but Geralt didn’t even stir. 

Deciding that, for the moment, there was not much to be done about escaping the situation, he decided to take stock of how truly poorly his friend was feeling. If it was enough to make the man pass out, it must have been formidable. 

It was a rare occasion that the man ever took off his armor if not to sleep; he always insisted that he needed to be _prepared,_ though for _what,_ exactly, Jaskier felt was up for debate. He had the sense that the armor he wore on the road was more for protection against humans, no matter how much he grunted about monsters being unpredictable. Jaskier had been quite surprised to find the witcher in just his black chemise and trousers this close to civilization. Though, now that he was actually touching him, it was easy to understand why; the heat radiating from his body was excessive even for a witcher. He cautiously placed his ear on the other man’s back, trying to make out the usually slow heartbeat.

Jaskier went from mild concern to full-fledged panic when he heard the heart thrumming along at near-human speed from within Geralt’s ribs. He had learned long ago that anything close to a normal heart rate was cause for immediate and extreme alarm. Throwing caution to the wind, the bard took his face in his hands and shook him firmly.

“Geralt!You-- _fucker!_ This is _not! Funny!_ Get your very lovely, very heavy arse up and stop fucking around!” He was rewarded with a heavy groan and a fluttering glimpse of golden eyes. 

“That’s right, come on, you big oaf, wake up for me. I can’t carry you by myself.”

“Hn?” The sound carried the weight of all the effort in the world, and Jaskier repressed a shudder at how _wrong_ such a weak noise sounded coming from the witcher’s lips. He poked his face incessantly. Geralt halfheartedly swatted at his hand, stirring into hazy wakefulness. 

“Jaskier? The fuck?” The usual ire in his voice was muted by confusion.

“You tell me, Geralt. Is it possible that you’ve been treating yourself even more poorly than you’ve let on? It’s come to collapsing grandly on me in the middle of the woods. I think that’s a little more than ‘I can’t fucking sleep.’” 

“Hmm.” Jaskier took the liberty of interpreting this particular grunt as _Yes, Jaskier, I am a flaming_ idiot _and I’ve been ignoring my own body’s protests at mistreatment in favor of killing monsters for coin, please forgive me and let me go back to sleep._

Perhaps that was a touch more dramatic than his usually silent friend would be, but he felt that the situation called for some dramatics. 

“Yes, well, now is not the time, dear friend. You see, I lost the feeling in my legs about five minutes ago.” He gestured flippantly at their awkward position. Geralt merely grunted again. 

This was going to take a while.

\---

It was truly a testament to how disoriented Geralt was that he nearly responded to Jaskier gesturing with a lewd comment about how close to his crotch his face was. He caught himself right as the words had started to slip off his tongue, somehow transforming them into one of his usual noncommittal noises.

Summoning what felt like all of his strength, Geralt pushed himself off of the bard and rolled onto his back, arm slapping wetly in the mud next to him. He opened his golden eyes to slits, staring unseeing at the sky above. The trees danced slowly in the wind, and he felt himself slipping back out of awareness. Some small part of him was alarmed, but it was drowned out by the need to _sleep._

Jaskier gazed with worry at the unresponsive witcher as he massaged the blood back into his muscles. 

“Are you quite alright?” The answer was painfully obvious, but Jaskier knew stupid questions were one of the only was to get the witcher to talk when he clearly had no desire to do so. Geralt cracked one eye open and side-eyed him viciously, as if he was deciding if punching the bard was worth the effort of moving. 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied with less heat than he had intended, tiredness seeping through. Jaskier smirked triumphantly.

“I am but a humble bard. Who am I to assume the condition of the great _White Wolf of Rivia?”_ He quipped, careful to keep the worry out of his voice. Geralt didn’t respond, and he frowned. When he could feel his toes again, Jaskier popped off of the ground and made a show of brushing himself off, slinging mud to the ground with a disgusted grimace. Geralt cracked open an eye again, but made no move to rise. 

“Really, Geralt, this was practically new.” No response, not that he had expected one.

“What say you get up, and we can go to town and sleep in a _proper_ bed? In an inn?”

“Hmm.” _I’m not moving._

“ _Honestly_ , with _that_ attitude, it’s no wonder you’re in this state.” Without waiting for a response, Jaskier dropped to one knee and wrestled Geralt into a sitting position, new trousers be damned. He closed his fingers around Geralt’s wrist, feeling the racing pulse under his pale skin as he pulled his arm around his shoulders. His white hair fell into his face as his head lolled back against Jaskier, and the bard felt his frown deepen, worry increasing tenfold. Forcing the light tone back into his voice, he continued to ramble.

“I know you believe everyone to have the same phenomenal strength as yourself, so this may come as a surprise, but I actually am _not._ Very much not, in fact. So I would be _eternally_ grateful if you could assist me while I try to haul your _very heavy_ arse to Roach.”

Geralt shot him a glare that he sensed more than saw. His strain was obvious, and Jaskier could feel the tension in his body as he struggled to sit up straight. Jaskier sighed resignedly before unsteadily hauling the both of them to their feet, his eyes widening with the effort.

 _“Hnn--gah! Whoo!_ Gods, Geralt, this is like trying to lift a damn _ox!_ Help me out here!”

“I _am,_ Jaskier!” Geralt growled, his forehead pinched with pain. Jaskier stole another worried glance at him, swallowing uncomfortably as he made eye contact. He forced a tight smile, then dropped it when he realized they both knew very well how fake it was. Hell, Geralt could probably smell the concern rolling off of him in waves. His companion merely rolled his eyes.

After some time and more than a few slips that nearly landed them back on the ground, the pair was standing upright. Well, nearly upright.

“You know,” Jaskier grunted, “you’re lucky that we’re nearly the same height. Can you imagine--” he paused to adjust Geralt’s weight across his back, “if I was shorter? I could’ve been crushed. What would you have done without your barker to sing songs of your heroics?” Geralt nearly fell over again, and the bard was left wondering if it was his statement or his companion’s exhaustion that had caused it.

 _You’re lucky I was here,_ was what he had meant. _What if you had done something stupid, and I hadn’t been here to stop you?_ He didn’t bother mentioning that he wasn’t sure if he could live in a world where the gruff man no longer breathed.

Geralt only hummed, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other without slipping in the mud once again. The image of Jaskier’s death-by-being-crushed-by-witcher was no less disturbing for his absurdity. He grit his teeth, directing his thoughts back to the present. 

If he had had the luxury of letting his mind wander, he might have secretly reveled in the close contact. There was even a valid reason for it, he mused. But it took too much concentration just to stay upright, let alone appreciate the silver lining of his current state.

“Alright, here we are. Roach, don’t you _dare.”_ Jaskier fixed the mare with a pointed glare, as if he could sense the mischievous plan up her metaphorical sleeve. There was an uneasy silence as the two sized each other up, before Roach whuffed her consent. For once, she recognized her foolish owner’s need for help, and acknowledged the uneasy truce they had for situations like this; one didn’t make it as long as they had by the side of the witcher without at least a few close calls. So Roach stood steady while Jaskier helped Geralt mount.

“My swords,” he huffed, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the lake. They were still propped against the tree where he had left them; Jaskier _tsked_ and muttered something about _so much for ambushes_ as he went to retrieve them. By the time he’d returned, Geralt was slumped over in the saddle, drifting to the side as he rested on Roach’s neck.

“Oh, no no no. We’ll be having none of that.” Jaskier scolded, quickly trotting back as he saw Geralt begin to slide off. Jaskier firmly shoved him back into his seat, tutting as worry creased his brow. Geralt looked up blearily, as if just realizing that he had nearly reintroduced himself to the ground. Once Jaskier was satisfied that he wouldn’t be making an unplanned dismount, the bard took hold of Roach’s reins and began to lead her back to the main road.

\---

Geralt was hardly aware of what was happening, drifting in the gray space between oblivion and awareness. Sheer willpower was the only thing keeping him from slipping out of consciousness. He maintained a loose grip on Roach’s mane and focused on Jaskier’s steady stream of words. He eventually realized that he couldn’t understand a single word of what the bard was saying and that it was only the intangible thread of fear in his voice that was keeping Geralt aware.

If there was one thing Geralt had learned about Jaskier in their years together, it was that if the man was afraid, it was for good reason. He could count on one hand the number of times the bitter tang of fear had soured the man’s scent, but he was certain that he could detect it now. The man wasn’t afraid of witchers--that much was obvious. Monsters hardly fazed him, nor did angry royals. Even sorcerers were hard-pressed to get a reaction. 

So why did the young man practically _reek_ of fear now? The fact that he was this scared meant that someone or something truly petrifying was after them, but Geralt’s memory was betraying him. Had he gotten injured? That would explain why Jaskier was leading Roach, but Geralt knew he wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t bested the monster. He remembered water...had it been a kikimora? Though Jaskier had quite literally laughed at the last one they had hunted. Perhaps a nest. That would explain the quick pace; maybe Jaskier was afraid there was another one in pursuit. 

“A nest?”

The bard paused in his speech, turning back with an incredulous expression.

_“What?”_

“Killed the kikimora. Was it--a nest?” 

Geralt fuzzily realized that he was slumped over on Roach’s neck again, one hand dangling loosely by his side while his other gripped the pommel of the saddle. The trees drifted by with a sickening sway. Jaskier stopped walking and approached Geralt with an expression that he couldn’t quite interpret.

Before he could get another word out, Jaskier’s cool hands were touching his face. Geralt couldn’t resist leaning into the touch--he was _so hot._ His joints felt like they were grinding against each other under his skin. 

Jaskier’s lips were moving again, but it was like trying to listen to him from underwater. Whatever he was saying, Geralt doubted it made sense. He dropped his head back to Roach’s neck and grunted. Those cool hands followed, carding through his hair once before drawing back. He whined at the loss, but couldn’t bring himself to move.

Jaskier gave him a look that clearly said _you’re delirious._ Geralt opened his mouth to argue that he was perfectly lucid, thank you very much, but somewhere between his brain and his lips, it turned to a halfhearted growl. He was graced with a sad smile before Jaskier turned around and continued walking. The witcher watched from behind as he placed a hand on Roach’s cheek, speaking to her quietly. The pace picked up ever so slightly. Geralt’s stomach lurched and suddenly all of his focus was on _not_ vomiting over the side of the saddle.

\---

Jaskier was worried. Geralt was always quiet during their travels, so the sudden talkativeness that seemed to have taken hold did _not_ bode well for Geralt’s state of mind. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be aware that he was speaking, staring blankly ahead while he rattled off nonsense. The bard kept glancing back--if Geralt fell off now, he knew there was exactly zero chance of getting him back on, let alone getting to town. The poor man desperately needed a bed and some warm food.

“Are you ‘kay?” The words slurred together, and through the fever-induced haze in his eyes, Jaskier detected a hint of real worry.

“What do you mean, Geralt? I’m not the one turning green in the saddle.” He replied, a hint of reproachfulness in his voice. Geralt gave him a look too loaded with emotion for him to even begin to interpret before he spoke again.

“Th’ Countess. You’re upset.”

Jaskier had to stifle a laugh, even as his heart warmed.

“Geralt, my dear, you must truly be ill if you’re trying to talk to me about my feelings. I assure you, I am quite alright.” The drinking had had much more to do with missing a certain white-haired witcher than the fleeting affections of the Countess.

“Y’sure?” His voice was so quiet, he nearly missed it. He paused the punishing pace he had set for a moment to look at Geralt. 

This was not the kind of picture that belonged in songs. He was slouched, unaware, but not quite unconscious, fiercely gripping the last shred of reality he had a hold on. As he gazed questioningly at the bard, a small tremor shook him; he gripped the pommel tighter in a fruitless effort to hide it. He looked very small, in that moment.

“Quite sure,” he said, placing a hand over the witcher’s own and squeezing it gently before turning back to the road.

“S’nice.” Geralt mumbled.

“What is?”

“Hands. Warm.” Jaskier did not turn around, but his eyebrows shot past his hairline at the statement. He knew his longtime travel companion was tragically starved of any kind of human contact, but he’d never said so in so many words. Rather, it was the way he never shied away, the gentleness with which he touched the bard on those rare occasions that he did. The way he seemed to bask in any tenderness like it would be the last. The way he seemed so hesitant to initiate anything, as if he was afraid that all his hands could do was maim and kill. It pained Jaskier to watch the wariness with which Geralt interacted with the world, but then, the world had very little kindness to offer in the way of witchers. 

This was all to say, he had certainly noticed, but the witcher had never been so vocal about _admitting_ it. He resolved to push the issue further later, when Geralt could maintain a coherent conversation. Smoke rose in the distance. The town was close.

\---

Jaskier’s hands, calloused from years of playing his lute, were gently tapping at his face. His voice, unusually urgent, was muffled and far away, calling to him. It was nice, the bard’s voice. Maybe one day he would actually say as much, he mused. 

The voice was still calling him, and he realized with a jolt that he didn’t remember falling asleep. His eyes snapped open instantly and he groaned as his senses were assaulted. Jaskier’s lips were moving, and he was certain that whatever he was saying must be important--his expression said as much--but he couldn’t force the words meaninglessly floating around him to form a complete sentence. Geralt squinted at Jaskier.

“Hn?” And there was that frown again; Jaskier had been doing that quite a bit since they’d reunited. It didn’t fit him. Geralt wanted to get rid of it, to banish it from existence. Such a sad expression didn’t belong on the face of his bard--if Geralt had his way, Jaskier would never be sad again. He was all too aware that more often than not, he was the cause of the despised expression.

As if he were reading his mind, Jaskier’s lips cracked into a smile and he chucked, but the worry lines creasing his forehead never left. Geralt briefly wondered what he could possibly be laughing at. 

Jaskier began to fiddle with the belts on the back of the saddle and Geralt belatedly realized that they were in a stable. Jaskier’s voice filtered into understandability.

“--I know that Roach is your only friend, as you so often _love_ to remind me, and I’m sure _you’re_ more than comfortable sleeping out here with her. But a hot bath and a warm bed would certainly do me wonders, and I know for a fact that you haven’t bathed in far too long. I could smell you before I saw you.

“What say you join me, hm?”

Of course, Geralt was no fool--he knew that Jaskier was putting on an act for the sake of the stable boy, who was eyeing them warily from where he was mucking out the stall across the aisle. He was also fairly certain that the bard was avoiding mentioning his sickness directly, as if he were in denial. But Geralt could tell, even in his half lucid state, that he was in a bad way. So while he was grateful for the consideration, it was misguided on Jaskier’s part; there was no need to tiptoe around his pride in a futile attempt to spare it. Decades of uncontested self-hatred had assured that he would never have such an obstacle.

Geralt had to admit, a hot bath sounded quite lovely. The warm bed was by no means a deterrent, either. That wasn’t what was stopping him. 

His problem was twofold. For one, he was concerned about the level of care Roach would receive. He was in no condition to intimidate the stable boy into treating her properly, and without that reassurance, he couldn’t in good faith leave her alone. His other problem was that he wasn’t certain he could dismount without quickly reaquanting himself with the ground. Colors were beginning to run together and his stomach was clenching in a way that warned against any sudden changes in altitude.

Jaskier must have read his mind again--when had he gotten so good at that?--because he sauntered to the stable boy and began exchanging quiet words with him. He was fairly sure that he saw the telltale flash of coin being exchanged, and then suddenly Jaskier was in front of him and speaking again.

“All taken care of. She’ll receive the best care this Continent has to offer.” Had he perhaps been hit with a spell that broadcasted his every thought to the bard? Had they fought a sorcerer? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities, although as a rule he preferred to fight monsters. Less messy that way.

But then Geralt found his mind wandering back to the lake (why was it so hard to remember that damn lake?)-- _You’ve been with me this long, you must be used to this by now._ Of course, the statement had been aimed at Roach, but he could see how it could apply to Jaskier as well. He’d known the man for over half of his short life. It must mean something for the bard’s ability to interpret his silences, or he wouldn’t have lasted a year.

He was jolted back to the present when Jaskier placed a bracing hand on his arm and jerked his head in the direction of the ground.

“It pains me to be the bearer of bad news, but if we are to progress any further, you really must get down.” Geralt felt his gaze drift towards the dirt floor, alarm flickering across his face for an instant. He grunted something that he hoped sounded affirmative, if a bit irritated, and swung his leg haphazardly over the saddle. Jaskier shifted behind him as if he were prepared to catch him, and Geralt had to stifle a laugh at the thought. They had both seen how well that would go earlier.

Suddenly, Geralt’s boot was making an early departure from its stirrup and he braced himself for the fall at the same time as a strong grip around his waist prevented it. He whipped his head around, locking eyes with Jaskier for what felt like an eternity. His face grew uncomfortably warm and he flicked his attention back to getting down. His legs were trembling by the time he reached the ground and he was hard pressed to tell if it was from weakness or nerves.

The quick motion paired with the spike in his adrenaline was enough to make his gut churn miserably, and he pressed his lips together in an effort to keep himself from being ill all over the stable floor.

Oblivious to Geralt’s distress, Jaskier busied himself with unpacking the rest of Geralt’s meagre belongings from the saddle. Jaskier hadn’t mentioned it (he’d been too preoccupied with getting the stubborn witcher to town in one piece), but he’d already been in the area for several days and had a room at the inn for a few more; it would be no bother to share it. There was only one bed, but that was fairly standard. They’d slept in the same bed plenty of times in the past. He buckled Geralt’s sword belt around his waist, frowning as the scabbards barely scraped the ground, and resolved to return later for the rest. He knew the witcher well enough to know he would not leave Roach’s side without his swords in his sight. Swiveling back around, he sighed quietly. 

Geralt eyed him incredulously from his half-hunched position next to Roach’s head, one arm wrapped around his torso and the other gripping the wall hard enough to whiten his knuckles. His expression said everything Jaskier needed to know, and he shook his head.

“Alright?” He asked. Unsurprisingly, Geralt didn’t reply. Jaskier carried on, undeterred by the lack of response. He gently looped an arm around his torso, tucking his own shoulder underneath the witcher’s own, and guided the man upward. They staggered out of the stable together. 

“You know, I really am quite glad that we happened to meet at that lake. If your current state is anything to go by, you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself when I’m not around!” Geralt huffed indignantly.

“I suppose I do make good company after all, no matter how often you try to convince me otherwise,” He smirked. Geralt hummed quietly at that, not an outright denial. He could never admit out loud how right the bard was; it was all part of their delicate dance. Jaskier would push, and Geralt pushed back. They both knew it was nothing more than an act--they would drop anything for each other at a moment’s notice--but Geralt insisted on maintaining his tough witchery facade, muttering about how it wasn’t good for business to go soft. So Jaskier kept chipping quietly away at it, like he was doing now.

Jaskier was quite aware of how much trust the witcher must have in him to take care of him in such a state. A few years ago, he might’ve simply brushed the bard off and disappeared to nurse whatever this was for its duration. But instead, he was allowing himself to be _vulnerable_ in front of him, and he was determined to show the witcher that it wasn't something he took lightly. 

Geralt eyed the bard skeptically. It was clear that it was taking no small amount of effort to take his weight, even with as much effort he was putting into keeping himself upright. Perhaps it was simply because he was out of breath, or maybe it was something more, but for once, the bard didn’t complain.

\---

Jaskier was completely at a loss. Geralt seemed to have completely lost whatever filter he usually kept in place; it seemed that any thought that crossed his mind was on his lips in the next heartbeat. The irony of their current switch in roles wasn’t lost on him. Perhaps it would make for a good song, one day. But for now, there was keeping Geralt _alive_ to worry about. 

The usually stoic man was rambling, completely shredding his usual grumpy facade, but damn if it didn’t fill him with relief to hear Geralt say how much he actually _did_ care.

“I could never speak of it, that would defeat the whole point of _not talking,_ but I care more about you than is strictly advisable--” He continued on, oblivious to Jaskier’s exasperated laughter as he supported him to the door of the inn. He toed the door open with more grace than he thought possible and shouldered his way into the building. 

It took some maneuvering, and no small amount of swearing on Jaskier’s part, but the pair eventually made it through the narrow door frame without incident. The very short trip had drained what little reserves of energy Geralt had had left. He was looking more than worse for the wear, alabaster hair damp with sweat and plastered to his face. Jaskier looked nearly as bad, having taken care of him for the hours it had taken to get to town and then, for all intents and purposes, carrying the much heavier man to the inn. His chest heaved with each breath and he was slouched in a position that had his back protesting ferociously. 

Upon their rather dramatic entrance, the innkeeper raised a single eyebrow and pulled the door shut behind them. 

“You’ll be wanting a bath, I suppose.” It wasn’t a question.

“That would be lovely, madam.”

“I’ll have one sent up.”

Jaskier shot the woman what he hoped was a winning smile, rather than the pained grimace it felt like, before maneuvering Geralt down the hall to the cramped staircase.

At some point during his brief interaction with the innkeep, Geralt had stopped talking. Jaskier stole a glance at his friend. If it was possible for the witcher to get paler (and Jaskier would know), he had done so, and his usually alert amber eyes were clouded with fever. The thin line of his lips from earlier in the stable had returned, and he could hazard a guess as to why. He knew the man had been nauseous for most of the ride, and even more so upon their arrival. He tightened his grip on Geralt’s limp wrist and shifted the too-warm arm across his back. Witchers ran hot, as Geralt had so often reminded him when Jaskier lamented how it seemed he never got cold. But Jaskier knew from many nights back-to-back that even a witcher wasn’t supposed to radiate heat like this. He suppressed a sigh and looked up the stairwell.

\---

The staircase was definitely not wide enough for one man and one very out-of-it witcher to ascend side-by-side, so they were forced to turn awkwardly. Jaskier nudged Geralt in front to prevent an unfortunate tumble down the steep incline. Geralt clumsily began walking up the stairs, and felt his eyes widen in confusion when Jaskier placed both of his hands _right on his ass_ before shoving him unceremoniously up. He grunted and stumbled the rest of the way, ancient risers creaking in warning under his weight.

Geralt narrowly missed falling headlong into the wall as he reached the top, keeling sideways as soon as Jaskier’s hands stopped supporting him. He slumped awkwardly against the dark wood, trying to stay upright more for Jaskier’s benefit than his own; he was more than happy to pass the fuck out exactly where he had landed, but it wouldn’t do to cause the bard more trouble when he had already put so much effort into making sure that he was okay. Sometime during their journey, an uncomfortable tightness had settled into his chest. He remembered the feeling from long ago when he had gotten sick as a child; it was not something he was anxious to revisit.

He became vaguely aware that they were walking again, but it was like watching through a tunnel. He tried not to think about how the warm touches on his overheated forehead soothed his raw nerves, about how Jaskier’s endless stream of quiet words worked like a balm. He let the bard’s worry wash over him, wordlessly complying to the other’s requests. With the fever relaxing his normal inhibitions, he leaned thoughtlessly into every brush of contact, humming contentedly.

Abruptly, he realized that he had been seated on the edge of a bed, and the bard had begun wrestling with his boots. 

“What...are you doing?” It took a phenomenal amount of effort to string those simple words together. Jaskier grunted from where he was kneeling on the floor and knit his brow in a way that screamed of unease. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty window onto his face and any words that Geralt had begun to speak became lost in his throat. Gods, the bard was beautiful.

Jaskier glanced up sharply with a skeptical expression and held his gaze for an unnerving amount of time. It could have been seconds or days. His fever-riddled mind had lost the concept of time hours ago at the lake. Eventually, Geralt was the one to break the trance, doubling over in a coughing fit that left him breathless.

Hm. That was new.

Roach was going to kill him. He could feel it now, the disapproval radiating from her as she watched him die in a fucking inn from too many sleepless nights. She would put her hands on her hips and _tsk_ at him, if that was something that horses could do. 

“Geralt, what are you on about? Roach is hardly a mother figure. I would compare her to an exceedingly bratty younger sister at most.” Normally, Geralt would take offense to that, but Jaskier’s head would not _stop_ swimming in front of him, the colors stretching into indistinguishable ribbons of matter. He plopped a hand onto the brunet locks to stop them from moving.

“Uh, Geralt?” Geralt didn’t move. _What the fuck?_

“Alright, then.” With a jerk, Jaskier tugged his boot free, and then he was deftly stripping him of his black shirt and trousers, leaving him in his smallclothes. Geralt allowed his hand to flop lifelessly to the straw mattress next to him.

Suddenly jaskier’s face was _very_ close to his own, and the familiar spicy scent of rosin and chamomile flooded his nostrils. Overwhelmed, Geralt found himself tipping his head forward so that it knocked softly against Jaskier’s own much cooler brow.

“Geralt, as much as I appreciate your sudden lack of restraint, you are actually _on fire._ I don’t know how you’re still alive, much less awake,” He fussed, “If you can call your current state _awake.”_

And then Jaskier was gently palming his forehead. He hissed violently at the temperature he found and Geralt shrank back like he had been burned, even though he wanted nothing more than to lean into the touch. What had he done this time?

The bard’s face immediately softened as Geralt all but launched backwards off the bed, a look of hurt flickering briefly in his golden eyes. He shoved his face into the sheets.

“Sorry.” Came the muffled apology.

“ _Bloody hell,_ Geralt, you’ve done nothing to be sorry for. I’m just worried, that’s all.” Gods, the bard sounded so tired. 

“All I do is inconvenience you.” The bard deserved better than cleaning up after his messes.

“Melitele’s shapely _tits._ First of all, I don’t resent this--this, whatever you call it, ‘cleaning up’ or otherwise,” he gestured wildly with air quotations, “you’re my _best! friend!,_ Geralt. I care about you. You would do the same if our situations were switched.” 

Something about the way Jaskier’s voice cracked on the words ‘best friend’ sent Geralt spiraling.

“Even with as hard as you pretend that you’re just an unfeeling asshole, I know better. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that there’s nowhere I’d rather be than by your side, even if it means taking care of your arse when you can’t take care of yourself!” 

Geralt’s breath hitched, but he didn’t remove his nose from where he had buried it. A tender but firm hand tilted his chin up, pulling him out of his stupor. He made an aborted effort to focus through his swimming vision, choosing to fixate on the tenor of Jaskier’s voice instead. It was full of some undefinable emotion; if he could only _concentrate,_ maybe he could understand it.

“Do you really think I would have spent the last _sixteen_ years following you around if I didn’t care about you? This isn’t about fame, Geralt.”

He wished he could find the words to tell Jaskier that he deserved far more than he could provide, that he deserved certainty and reliability and a happy ending that he would never find with a witcher. He couldn’t allow himself to love the bard, and _there,_ he’d finally admitted it, he was fucking _in love--_ he couldn’t allow such emotion when it would only bring the bard pain.

Jaskier’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his expression settled into something a bit smug, but not unkind. It finally clicked to Geralt that the reason his throat had become so dry was because he had been _talking._

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

“Fuck.”

Geralt braced himself for the inevitable laughter, for when Jaskier finally stood up and left him forever. 

“You oblivious bastard,” Jaskier started, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind the witcher’s ear and deciding against it when he flinched, “do _I_ not get a say in all of this?

“You’ve never been as good at hiding how you feel as you might like to think. You read like an open book, dear. You’ve been saying the same thing for years, though maybe not with words. But you must be willfully blind if you haven’t seen that _I love you, too.”_


	3. You put your arms around me and I'm home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is thoroughly exhausted and his fever just keeps going up. Luckily, Jaskier has experience dealing with an injured witcher, so a sick witcher can't be that different. Feelings ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been quite a long time in the works, largely due to the fact that finals week is rapidly approaching and I’ve been working my ass off in all of my classes. My studio prof essentially said we’re probably not going to have any free time until the semester is over, so I’ve been working on this as often as I can find time. For those who have been keeping up with this story since the beginning, I'll probably be updating faster here in about a week or so, since classes will be over for me the 15th. There's still more coming and Geralt definitely isn't past the worst of it yet, so sit tight! I definitely didn't expect for this to grow as long as it has, but the muse has her own goals. I have only a vague idea where this is going, so y'all's guess is as good as mine!I haven’t had time to reply to all of the sweet comments I’ve received on this work, but each and every one makes my day! You all are so kind and it’s been lovely to see that y’all are enjoying this as much as I am. I’m ridiculously self-indulgent in my work and clearly I’m not alone in my preferences. I’m hoping to get around to responding to comments as soon as I’ve posted this chapter! I’ve received a lot of excitement for the comfort scenes and I was quite nervous about writing thise because domestic interaction isn’t quite my forte.  
> That being said, this chapter is SOFT. I never imagined that I could write such mushy work, especially when I was younger and just the thought of kissing was enough to make me gag. Ah, well. Times change. Go into this chapter forewarned that I was grinning like an idiot the whole time I was writing it. Have fun!

_ This. _

_ This  _ must be what stars felt when they collided. It was as if the whole world had narrowed to a pinpoint, the words  _ I love you, too _ ricocheting rapidly off of the inside of his skull. Geralt felt his eyes widen imperceptibly as he processed the words.

And then they were crashing together, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches, and any semblance of thought quickly vacated his brain. Jaskier’s soft lips were suddenly pressed against his own, their teeth knocking together painfully before either man could rein himself in. If they were asked later, both would be hard pressed to remember who had initiated the kiss, only that it was explosive.

Jaskier cupped his face with both hands, warm palms making his face tingle happily, before pushing Geralt back onto the bed. A melodious whine left the singer’s lips as he tried to express his need.

Geralt could listen to that whine endlessly. He felt as though he might die without the bard’s voice. He fisted the bard’s shirt in his own hand and pulled him in, nearly toppling them both onto the mattress.

He tasted sweet, and Geralt felt very nearly drunk with their embrace. Jaskier pressed their bodies impossibly closer and let one hand slip to the base of his neck, tugging greedily at his hair. It wasn’t pretty or tender, an animalistic,  _ needy  _ thing as they both tried desperately to say with a kiss what they had failed to say with words for so many years. Geralt’s cheeks were growing quite warm, and he had difficulty determining if it was because of the fever or...well. Something else.

After what felt like forever (but not nearly long enough), they separated enough to breathe. Geralt kept his forehead pressed against Jaskier’s own and trembled as the bard panted gently against his cheek, tickling the stubble there. Geralt, with a rare lack of restraint, leaned forward and nipped at his earlobe. He received a quiet, breathy laugh in response.

“Geralt,  _ please,  _ don’t--don’t tease me right now. I might not be able to stop myself.”

Geralt pulled back, his brow slightly furrowed as he gazed deep into those blue eyes. When Jaskier saw his confusion, he laughed and finally pushed the stray hair behind Geralt’s ear.

“Come, now. We both know you're in no condition for any sort of... _ physical exertion,  _ shall we say?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, lips quirking into an alluring grin. 

Geralt very nearly whined before remembering himself. He settled on a disappointed sigh and buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, nuzzling possessively into the fabric there. He wasn’t entirely sure when the bard had ended up on his lap, but he certainly wasn’t upset by the development. Jaskier carded his hand through Geralt’s hair, scratching gently in a way that sent chills down his spine. 

Just as he began to drift back into that fuzzy space between reality and sleep, he felt another cough tickling his throat. He  _ really  _ didn’t want to ruin the moment, though, so he tried to hold it in. Jaskier sensed the change in tension and pulled back, placing his hands on his shoulders.

“Alright?”

Geralt nodded as he finally lost the battle to hold it in. Harsh coughing wracked his usually sturdy frame as he tried and failed to take a deep breath. Warm circles were being rubbed on his back and he couldn’t find the air to convey his thanks. Instead, he took the bard’s hand and squeezed desperately.

After far too long, in Jaskier’s expert opinion, he finally regained control. An alarming rattle had settled into Geralt’s chest. He fixed the witcher with a concerned glare, putting his hands on his hips.

“I  _ honestly  _ don’t know how you managed to make it as far as you did before your grand collapse. You really are quite an idiot,”

“Didn’t think it would get this bad.” The witcher wheezed, wiping his watery eyes.

Jaskier merely shook his head and pressed his hand firmly against his lower back, guiding him towards the edge of the bed. Geralt grumbled.

“I  _ know  _ you’re tired, but just think! A bath will probably do you  _ wonders _ . It will help you relax and maybe get this cough under control.” The hopeful note in his tone  _ almost  _ masked the fact that Geralt didn’t have an option. Jaskier could be more stubborn than even him, if the need arose. Clearly, he had determined that now was one of those times.

Geralt contemplated arguing. He was certain that it was a lost cause, but it was more on principle than anything else. Then he remembered how dirty he had been before this whole ordeal began, slogging through the lake water to fish for a djinn. Before that, it had been countless days of travel, only stopping to sleep and rarely to eat. And  _ Gods,  _ he was tense. His  _ knots _ had knots. Both of those problems happened to be easily solved by a hot bath. And then there was the added benefit of Jaskier’s soft hands being involved in the process. That pretty much sealed the deal. He shuddered involuntarily, a chill running down his back, and nodded his consent.

Jaskier had clearly thought ahead; sometime during their interaction, or perhaps shortly after they had gotten up to the room and before Geralt had been slightly more lucid, hot water had appeared in the wooden tub in the corner of their room. Geralt eyed it skeptically, noting the steam still rising from the surface. 

“Alright, come on, you big oaf,” Jaskier grunted, hauling Geralt up and taking the majority of his weight in the proces. In a rare moment of weakness, he allowed himself to lean willingly on his companion. He pretended not to notice Jaskier’s pleased hum at the development.

When they reached the tub, Jaskier took his hand and led it to the edge so he could steady himself as the bard deftly stripped him of his smallclothes.

Hm. All of Jaskier’s  _ experience  _ did have its benefits, he supposed. 

Choosing not to dwell on that though any longer for fear of where it might lead him, he stepped gingerly into the steaming water. At first, it was nearly too warm, but he quickly adjusted to the heat and sank gratefully into it with a heavy sigh. His hands dropped into the water with a quiet splash and he allowed his eyelids to fall to half mast. Distantly, he registered an affectionate chuckle.

Warmth seeped from the water into his joints and he felt his mind go fuzzy.  _ Gods,  _ this was nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to afford a hot bath, and he was loathe to admit how much he had missed it. Jaskier was usually the one who chose to indulge in such luxuries; Geralt could do just fine without them, so most of the time he chose to forego the waste of money. He shifted slightly and watched ripples dance across the dark surface of the water.

After a few moments, Jaskier interrupted the peaceful silence.

“Ah! I have  _ just  _ the thing!” He exclaimed, delighted.

“Jaskier…” Geralt growled in warning, not willing to deal with any of the bard’s antics after he had finally gotten comfortable.

“Oh, quit your grumbling. I happen to know you’ll enjoy  _ this.”  _ Geralt’s thoughts derailed suddenly at  _ that  _ ambiguous statement. Had that been some sort of euphemism? What was he implying, exactly?

As it turned out, it was nothing as lewd or explicit as he had dared to imagine. Jaskier spent some moments fumbling through the singular bag he had retrieved from under the bed, the quiet tinkling of small glass jars colliding accompanying his humming. Finally, he made a noise of success and returned with a small vial of oil.

“Peppermint!” He declared triumphantly, waving it in front of Geralt. 

The witcher's thoughts flashed back briefly to the last time they had gone to the market together, just before splitting to go their separate ways for winter. He had been perusing the apothecary, Jaskier happily chattering away with the shopkeeper about something or the other. He had very nearly purchased an eerily similar vial of oil from the shop, then decided against it in favor of ingredients for his potions. He had no way of predicting what he would run into on the Path to Kaer Morhen, and it was better to be prepared for injury than spend money on vanity.

Jaskier was more observant than he had let on. He wondered how many other little things he had failed to pick up on over the years. How often had the bard done this, only to have Geralt remain completely oblivious to his feelings?

He blinked as Jaskier wiggled the bottle in his face again, nearly going cross-eyed as he tried to focus on it.

“The  _ fuck  _ is that for, Jaskier?” He asked incredulously. 

“Your  _ cough,  _ you insufferable idiot. Have you never used peppermint for a cough before?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“It’s not every day that I come down with an illness, lark. What use would it be to learn about such simple remedies when witchers never get sick?” Jaskier had stilled at the use of the nickname Geralt used for him in the privacy of his own thoughts. He mentally kicked himself, blaming the fever boiling under his skin for the slip-up.

Jaskier chose mercy, just this once, and continued on without acknowledging the new name. 

“ _ Clearly,  _ witchers do get sick. And I’ve got one sitting right in front of me to prove it.” He retorted, uncorking the vial and tipping several drops into the bathwater. He dipped his fingers in, dispersing the oil before wiping his hands off on his shirt.

Geralt scented the air cautiously, all too familiar with how easily his senses could be overwhelmed. The smell of peppermint was not a strange one, but he had never indulged in its oil before and was unsure of its strength.

He was pleasantly surprised when he found it was just right. A cool sensation settled in his lungs with each breath, easing the burning that had taken residence there. He raised a single eyebrow at the bard, who had been watching him with trepidation. When the witcher hummed and the corners of his mouth quirked up, he grinned victoriously and returned the vial to its original location. 

Geralt’s eyes followed him idly as he strutted back to the tub and flipped the washbasin over, using it as a stool. He rested his arms on the edge of the tub and propped his chin on his hands.

“Alright?”

“You keep asking that,” Geralt huffed, not unkindly.

“Yes, well. It’s difficult to tell with you sometimes. I’d like to be sure.” Jaskier’s gaze was unrelenting, and Geralt found himself spellbound. 

“More than alright.  _ Good,  _ actually.” He replied, astonished to realize that he was telling the truth. Jaskier raised a skeptical brow, taking in his less than ideal state.

“ _ Really.”  _ The bard deadpanned.

“Maybe not physically. But otherwise? It’s possible...well, it’s possible I’ve never been better.” Geralt’s eyes widened at his own loose tongue. Damn. The fever was definitely getting worse again.

At his admission, Jaskier’s eyes narrowed further and he palmed Geralt’s brow in worry. 

“You’re getting quite warm, Geralt. If you were human, I’m almost certain you’d be dead.” His hand never left his face as he spoke.

“Witchers are more than capable of handling a little fever.” Geralt grunted, masking his own worry with debatable success. Truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten ill of his own accord. Generally, poison, venom, infection, or some other insidious outside force was the cause of any incapacitation. Certainly, any naturally occurring illness had happened before the Trials.

“You’ll need to get out of the water before too long. Won’t do you any good if I can’t get you cooled down.” Geralt shuddered uncomfortably at the suggestion, the cold air around him tickling his skin mockingly.

“Before that, though, I do believe your hair might benefit from some washing. You’re hardly the White Wolf in this state. More like the Sickly Beige Wolf,” he remarked with a theatrical grimace. Geralt growled, baring fangs still long from wintering at Kaer Morhen with no real heat.

Jaskier scooted behind him before he could protest and he froze as his warm breath puffed gently in his ear. He tried and failed to suppress a delightful shiver.

“May I?”

Geralt became very aware of a blush across his cheeks that would be hard to blame on the fever. He could sense Jaskier’s hands hovering near his head, waiting for his consent. He nodded quickly, attempting to hide his enthusiasm, heart stuttering slightly. This was no different from any other time Jaskier had washed his hair, he told himself. Nothing different at all.

Not at all like they had just confessed their love for each other mere moments ago.

Jaskier began, perhaps aware or perhaps unaware of Geralt’s inner turmoil. As soon as his nimble fingertips grazed his scalp, he melted into the touch. A satisfied hum slipped from him. 

Jaskier allowed a smile to light up his face, quite aware that Geralt was taking extreme pleasure from the small gesture. He found himself wondering how much experience the witcher had had with kind touches before they had met. He would hazard that it was not near as much as he deserved.

Geralt tilted his head back to rest on the edge of the wooden tub and suddenly Jaskier’s eyes met his molten gold stare. His irises were unusually narrow, pupils large and round. Something electric passed between them and warmth bloomed in his chest at the unguarded affection in his witcher’s eyes.

Less of a wolf and more of a puppy, he thought absurdly. 

Geralt blinked when Jaskier’s hands stopped moving, still tangled in his wet hair. He could feel that his eyes were blown wide with adoration, but he couldn’t find the willpower to bring his involuntary reflexes back under control. The soft scratch of neatly manicured nails across his skull and the quickly cooling bathwater had done their job. He breathed in deeply and took in the scent of Jaskier, tinged with something sweet that he had noticed in the past but always failed to identify.

He recognized it now as  _ love.  _

And really, how had he managed to be  _ that  _ blind? The bard clearly had not been trying to hide his affections for some time now--in fact, the air around him had been constantly permeated with that delightful undertone for almost as long as he had known the younger man. He chalked it up to unfamiliarity with the scent--it wasn’t like people generally harbored any positive feelings for the witcher, let alone love. He was much more accustomed to the smell of fear and hatred. Jaskier’s face took on a somber expression, and Geralt realized belatedly that he had been speaking aloud again.

“You just wait. I’ll make certain that it won’t remain that way forever.” He whispered fiercely, his voice contrasting with the gentle scrubbing at his hair. Geralt shook his head disbelievingly. He had been alive for far too long to believe that Jaskier’s songs, no matter how popular, could change the prejudices of everyone. He was happy enough with his lark. 

Geralt, the fool, had been hopelessly pining after Jaskier for years. Jaskier, who had always reciprocated his feelings wholeheartedly and without reserve. 

_ We really are a pair of idiots. _

“Well, dear, you have to admit it is a double-edged sword. Not entirely my fault. You’re just as foolish as I, though I’m inclined to argue that interpreting your monosyllabic grunts is maybe just  _ slightly  _ harder than the countless songs I have written about you--even  _ to you-- _ over the years.”

Ah. There was that lack of filter again. He really needed to get his mouth under control. 

But then again.

Suddenly arrested with temptation, Geralt reached up and tugged Jaskier’s chin down, bringing their lips together for a kiss.

“I must say, I do enjoy this more demanding side of you, dear,” Jaskier murmured when they parted. He was so close that Geralt’s skin prickled.

Breaking the moment, Jaskier stood up and busied himself with fetching a towel. Geralt didn’t move, allowing himself to linger on the rather becoming sight. Jaskier was slightly flushed for reasons that Geralt didn’t have to guess at, the sleeves of his chemise pushed past his elbows haphazardly in a way that he found maddeningly attractive. When the bard returned, he nudged Geralt’s head off the edge of the tub and used the towel to pat his silver hair mostly dry.

The witcher was unused to this tender behavior and found himself feeling lost when Jaskier took his arm and helped him stand, supporting him with one hand while he used the other to quickly and efficiently dry him off. His limbs felt weak and heavy, heart beating just a little too fast to be comfortable. He tried to focus on other things to pull his attention away from the discomfort.

The towel was surprisingly soft for an inn as run-down as this one. Jaskier ran it down his back and chest, then stooped to reach his legs. Geralt braced himself for the questions before remembering that Jaskier had seen him naked a great deal of times--the scars were as familiar to him as if they were his own. Jaskier knew the stories behind most of them, whether it was through a reluctant and likely drunken tale on Geralt’s part, or firsthand witness. Aside from his fellow witchers at Kaer Morhen, he had never allowed any person besides Jaskier to become close like this.

Too often, closeness invited pain.

Geralt would usually fight the coddling, but he could hardly stand up straight and figured he could allow it just this once to save himself the embarrassment of meeting the floor yet again. Just this once, he would allow himself the excuse of sickness.

“You really are a stubborn bastard,” Jaskier broke the easy silence as he finished drying Geralt’s legs.

“Hn?” The witcher gripped Jaskier’s shoulder shakily as he helped him pull on his spare smallclothes.

“There doesn’t always have to be life-threatening injury or sickness involved for you to let me do things like this. Washing your hair. Kissing you. You’re allowed to be human.” Jaskier leveled him with a piercing gaze, his tone leaving no room for argument.

For once, Geralt didn’t feel the urge to argue.

“Come on, sit with me.” Jaskier led him to the bed and sat cross-legged on it, patting the spot in front of him expectantly. Geralt, shaking like a newborn foal without Jaskier’s steady support under his arm, found himself complying easily. Jaskier snatched the blanket from the edge of the bed and wrapped it snugly around his bare shoulders. It was warm from the hearth and Geralt sighed contentedly, allowing a small smile to sneak onto his lips. It wasn’t missed by the bard, who returned the sentiment with a blinding smile of his own. 

He produced a comb from somewhere and began untangling his hair, starting at the ends and working his way up. Geralt found the careful tugs oddly comforting, the fever making his mind fuzzy. He let himself drift somewhere between wakefulness and sleep as Jaskier’s lute-callused hands worked the knots out. He hummed a simple tune, probably composing even now. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth and drove the ache that had settled in his joints away. Down the stairs, he could make out the sounds of other guests returning for the night, returning from the tavern across the street. 

Geralt was pulled back to awareness when Jaskier’s hands moved from his head to his shoulders, rubbing deep circles into the tired muscles. He groaned appreciatively at the touch and leaned back ever so slightly. His hair shifted and the weight of it was just slightly off--he reached to run a hand through it and was surprised to find that it had been pulled back into what was not quite his usual half-up style. Now, intricate braids circled the crown of his head and met at the back to fall onto his neck. Jaskier paused in his ministrations, uncertain.

“Do you like it?” He asked, a twinge of hope creeping into his voice.

Geralt was mildly shocked to find that he  _ did _ ; while braids were a bit less utilitarian than he was used to, he found himself feeling incredibly pleased at the thought that they marked him as  _ Jaskier’s.  _ He ran his fingers along the braids thoughtfully. Something akin to a purr rumbled in his chest.

“ _ Yes.” _

Jaskier all but leapt into the air--for Geralt, this was a loud and enthusiastic approval, and he couldn’t be more delighted at the thought. He grinned widely and fluttered in place, unable to contain his giddiness. Geralt felt his lips twitch in amusement.

After some time, Jaskier stopped massaging Geralt’s aching muscles, leaving him feeling loose and tingly. He had felt himself continue to grow warmer, and he was certain that the bard felt it, too. Tendrils of delirium were beginning to worm their way back into his reality and he knew it was only a matter of time before he became completely incoherent. He was only vaguely aware that Jaskier had stopped, as he had begun to doze off. The bard wrapped his arms around Geralt from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“I  _ know  _ you’re exhausted, and frankly I am too. Lugging your heavy arse around all day can be quite tiring. What do you say to some shuteye?”

Geralt blearily forced his eyes open a crack and turned just enough to grunt at Jaskier. Jaskier took this as an enthusiastic  _ yes  _ and patted Geralt once before getting up and stripping down to his smallclothes. Geralt didn’t move, content in his blanket cocoon. Jaskier was blurry and watching him move made his head spin slightly. He was beginning to feel a bit giddy, very much like he was drunk. He smiled lazily at the bard.

Jaskier stood still for a moment, taking in the all-too-endearing sight of the witcher nearly fast asleep, sitting and wrapped up cozily. He looked almost... _ soft,  _ in the firelight, eyes just barely cracked open enough to see Jaskier. His golden irises glinted enchantingly, reflecting the flames.

It was little moments like this that made Jaskier wonder how he had managed to keep himself in check for all of these years. It was positively  _ impossible  _ not to fall for such beauty. All of the horrifying stories he had grown up hearing simply were not true.

Geralt sneezed abruptly and Jaskier laughed, the melodic sound echoing through their room. A halfhearted glare was directed his way, but it quickly softened as he crawled into bed next to the witcher.

“Hey. Share,” he huffed, pulling putilantly at the blanket still wrapped around his companion’s shoulders. Geralt sighed theatrically before a mischievous smile crossed his face and he waggled his eyebrows dangerously. That was all the warning Jaskier got before he was tackled, quickly being pulled down to lay beside the witcher. They fell sideways still facing each other, and it took Geralt only moments to wrap himself around Jaskier like a monkey, every limb thrown over him possessively.

Jaskier laughed again, affectionately placing a hand on Geralt’s cheek. His laugh faded when he felt how quickly his temperature had increased. Geralt cracked an eye open and whuffed before grinning again and burying his face in the crook of his neck. The bard allowed himself a smile and he tightened his own grip on the witcher until they were plastered together, nearly desperate in their attempts to be closer.

Jaskier wondered idly if this behaviour was even remotely normal, but then again, it was entirely possible that this was the first opportunity Geralt had ever had to behave in this manner. The thought was sobering. Jaskier had certainly never taken the much larger, stronger man to be so...well,  _ cuddly,  _ for lack of a better term. He was pleasantly surprised by this development, and could only hope that it wasn’t the result of the still-raging fever beneath his pale skin. His concern had spiked several notches at the unusual display of emotion.

He felt Geralt nip playfully at his collarbone and nudged the witcher’s chin up for a chaste kiss. They remained that way for a moment, lips pressed together like they hoped it would never end. Then Jaskier realized that Geralt had finally-- _ finally  _ dropped into a heavy sleep. Right in the middle of their kiss. Huffing in a mixture of exasperation and amusement, he resolved to pester Geralt relentlessly about  _ that  _ one when he got better.

Taking a deep, contented breath, Jaskier settled in closer next to his lover and closed his eyes. He had a feeling that it was going to be a long night.


	4. It's easier for you to let me go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s fever gets worse in the night, and Jaskier searches for a healer. The boys wrestle with guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took on a life of its own, I swear. I have absolutely no clue how I managed to write nearly 7k words for this one when I could barely make it past 4k for Chapter 3. There’s a lot of internal angst in this chapter for both of our boys, though Geralt has it a bit worse in my opinion. Somehow Chireadan managed to weasel his way into this fic, something that was entirely unplanned on my part. I’m still not confident enough with Yen’s character to write her yet, so that’s something that will probably appear in future fics. Speaking of future fics, I've got my next one in the works as I wrap this one up! It's probably going to involve more action and be at least a little bit longer, if not significantly so. It's not fleshed out by any means, but it's coming soon and probably around the same time that I post the final chapter of this one!  
> As always, thank you for reading and for all of your encouraging comments! I read each and every one, even if I don't reply to them all! Love y'all!

Jaskier awoke drenched in sweat. He wasn’t sure if it was his own, or someone else’s. Confusion seized him; he had been perfectly comfortable when he’d fallen asleep, but somehow he had become excessively warm. The fire had died down in the hearth long ago and wasn’t putting off near as much heat as it had been earlier. The room was swept in darkness. He was tangled in the blanket, which had become wrapped around him at some point, and he was situated precariously near the edge of the bed, which was unusual in and of itself. Generally, Geralt was the one falling off the bed in an attempt to put as much space between himself and the bard as possible. 

He was jerked from his thoughts as a heavy hand smacked against his back. A distressed growl echoed from across the bed, and he remembered.

Geralt was sick.

Jerked abruptly out of the half-awake state he’d been in, he slid the rest of the way off the mattress and rushed to the other side of the bed. It was almost too dark to see, but the moonlight filtering in from the window just allowed him to make out Geralt’s face.

One look, and it was easy to tell that the witcher was very much in a bad way. There was a flush high on his cheekbones that Jaskier had only seen a few times before, one that often heralded infection or poison in the past. The rattle that had taken up residence in his lungs earlier had become much more pronounced and he was mumbling half-coherent sentences in his sleep. Jaskier grimaced with worry, pacing as he tried to decide the best course of action to take.

Fevers had always struck Jaskier in the winter, both as a child and now that he had grown older. The obvious solution had always been to use the cold provided by the season to stave off the fever if it got too high. Seeing as it was nearly summer and the temperature outside was the same as inside, he was left fumbling for options. Frustrated, he kicked a discarded boot across the room, where it collided with a quiet thud against the bath.

Hm. 

Crossing the room in two strides, he dipped his fingers into the water. It was by no stretch of the imagination cold, but far cooler than the witcher’s sky-high temperature. He eyed the water, clouded with dirt from the road, with distaste. It would have to do. 

Jaskier took a cloth from his bag and dunked it into the tub. He then wrung it out and returned to Geralt’s side, swiping the fabric against his face and exposed chest. Irrationally, he wondered why the water didn’t sizzle upon contact with his pale skin. 

Geralt, startled by the cold compress, jerked awake violently. One moment, Jaskier was kneeling next to the bed, and the next he was on the floor with Geralt’s very strong, very large hands trying to choke the life out of him.

The witcher’s face was contorted with blind rage, fangs bared and dangerously close to his throat. Torn between a strange surge of fascination with his friend’s teeth and paralyzing fear, Jaskier scrabbled at Geralt’s arm.

“Geral--!” And wow, it was getting  _ really  _ hard to breathe, “--it’s me!! Meli-- _ Melitele--”  _ His heartbeat was roaring in his ears and Jaskier realized that Geralt had cut off a great deal more than his air supply. Fighting the blackness encroaching quickly on his vision, he scrambled to think of an escape. Inspiration struck, and, feeling sick, Jaskier kicked his heels  _ hard  _ into Geralt’s stomach.

The heavier man reeled back quickly, falling to his side in pain as Jaskier tried and failed to leap out of his reach. He was partially successful in dragging himself a distance away before collapsing back to the floor, cradling his throat in his hands as he gasped for air. For a moment, the pair laid on the floor, each man trying to catch his breath. When Jaskier could finally breathe again without feeling like it was a monumental task, he crawled to kneel next to Geralt, tentatively touching him on the shoulder.

_ “Gods,  _ Geralt, I’m sorry--you were--” He clamped his mouth shut as Geralt growled again. Carefully removing his hand from his arm, Jaskier backed up to give the witcher some space.

“Geralt, are you with me?” He managed a nod, eyes still squeezed shut, and wheezed. 

“Can I help you off the floor?” Another nod. Together, they managed to get back on the bed, where Geralt sat shakily staring into the middle distance.

“Sorry.” He whispered, sounding raspy and shaken.

“You needn’t apologize. You weren’t thinking clearly.” Geralt bared his teeth in a sympathetic grimage as he spotted the marks circling Jaskier’s throat, reaching up to brush his fingers against them and paling considerably as he took in what he had done.

_ “Geralt.  _ I’m okay.” Jaskier insisted, gently taking his wrists and pulling his hands down. Geralt huffed in disbelief, but dropped the subject.

“Everything’s--moving. Can’t see straight.” 

“That’ll be the fever. It’s gone up again,  _ appallingly _ high. I think you might be getting delirious.” Jaskier thought back to before they had gone to sleep, when Geralt’s behavior could have been described as drunk.  _ Should have picked up on it sooner,  _ he scolded himself.

“Here. Lay down. I’m going to get the cloth and see if that won’t help lower your fever.” He pushed Geralt back onto the mattress where he lay, shivering and miserable. The usually unflinching man jumped violently when the wet fabric made contact with his skin.

“S’cold.” He sounded like a petulant child and Jaskier had to suppress a worried frown.

“I know, it’s no fun. I’ve had my share of fevers over the years. But you won’t start to feel better until we can get it under control.” Geralt groaned resignedly, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might crack.

Jaskier bit his lip, thoughts racing as he tried desperately to remember what he had done in the past for his illnesses. He didn’t get sick often enough to bother remembering how to deal with it properly, something he was sorely regretting now. Geralt had already been stripped of his shirt and trousers, and the blanket was still on the other side of the bed where Jaskier’d left it. 

Geralt, unaware of Jaskier’s internal plight, felt like he had just gone three rounds with a kikimora and emerged from it looking like one of its victims. His blood was trying to burn through his veins, but he was  _ freezing.  _ His joints felt as if they had been replaced with gravel. The whole situation reeked of illness, and he lamented that his stock of potions was too depleted to be of any use. He would have to ride this one out the old-fashioned way. Stringing together one thought to the next was already becoming a monumental task, and it would only get worse before it got better. 

Another round of hellacious coughing assaulted him, and he felt Jaskier’s hands on his back help him to sit up. Exhaustion needled at him insistently, but his head felt like he had recently taken a sledgehammer to the skull. He was hard-pressed to remember a time it had hurt this bad, and even the slightest movement sent him reeling. Jaskier’s well-intentioned push to get him upright left his world tilting sickeningly.

“F’ckin hurts,” he grumbled, gesturing at nothing in particular. Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered why he had said them.

“I don’t have anything for pain, and the apothecary’s likely closed ‘til morning.” Jaskier lamented, alarmed that Geralt was even admitting to the pain. He growled and gestured again, this time flicking his wrist in the direction of their belongings.

“M’ bag. I keep some on hand.” Geralt struggled to think through the rhythmic hammering inside his skull. Somewhere deep in the back of his brain, a small voice was screaming  _ don’t.  _ He ignored it. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows knit in confusion; Geralt’s pain tolerance was troublingly high, and he  _ hated  _ using any drug to ease the pain, always complaining about how it ‘fucked with his reflexes.’ Geralt’s words, not his. But one look at the way Geralt’s face was lined with it, and the argument died on his lips. 

“Why do  _ you  _ carry painkillers? You never hesitate to remind me how much witchers hate them!” He exclaimed, rifling through Geralt’s saddlebags. 

“F’r you. ‘Case you get injured.” Came the meek response. Jaskier paused for the briefest of moments, something warm in his chest, before continuing his search. There were a great number of empty glasses to sort through. Finally, he came across one of many unlabeled vials, only this one didn’t contain any of the usual potions he was used to seeing.

“Is this it?” He asked, holding it up for Geralt to see. 

“What color is it?”

“Er...white? Same look and consistency as--well--?” 

“That’s it!” Geralt interrupted before he could go any farther. The bard stopped, unsure how else to describe it. It sounded disgustingly suggestive, when he put it that way. He winced at his own words.

Geralt held out his hand wordlessly. Jaskier quickly shook off the dangerous thoughts circling in his head and handed the vial off. With shaky hands, Geralt uncorked it and downed half the bottle before he could change his mind. Jaskier’s eyes widened.

“Are you sure--?”

“Witcher.” Geralt grunted, as if that would explain his rash decision. Jaskier shook his head, lips parting in concern.

_ “What?” _

“I’m a  _ witcher,  _ Jask,” Geralt sighed heavily, leaning back onto the headboard, “takes more to have an effect. Resistance is a double-edged sword.”

“Still...are you certain that was the best course of action?”

Geralt shook his head in response, pursing his lips. He was already regretting the impulse decision, wondering what exactly had possessed him to do it. He felt like his judgement had vacated his senses. He had only just remembered what painkiller it was that he carried around for Jaskier. 

“Geralt-- _ what  _ did you just take?” Jaskier tried and failed to keep the sten note of unease from entering his tone.

“May’ve been poppy’s milk.” With that, any pretense of calm quickly vacated Jaskier’s body.

_ “Fuck,  _ Geralt!Poppy’s milk?? With you already in a state with this fever--neither of us knows how you’ll react!” He was pacing again, tossing his arms in the air.

Geralt said nothing in reply, but his expression said everything Jaskier needed to know. He wanted to kick himself; he should have questioned the witcher sooner. He clearly wasn’t thinking straight. If he had taken just one moment to remove his mind from the gutter--

Geralt was simultaneously cursing his fever-addled brain. He could not devise a single reason for why he had decided to take the poppy’s milk other than sickness-induced incoherence. It hadn’t been until the cloying sweetness of the medicine had coated his throat that he had registered the reason his instincts had been screaming  _ no.  _ He’d only been able to remember that he carried  _ something  _ in his saddlebags for Jaskier, not what it was. He despised the way the opiate stole his control from him. Other medicines dulled his senses, but poppy’s milk was a different beast altogether. Most witchers would rather suffer than drink the hated concoction.

Already, it was taking effect. He twisted his hands into the sheet underneath him, anxiety kicking in quickly as the medicine entered his bloodstream. Sweat was prickling on his brow and his heart rate had nearly doubled.

Jaskier, observation skills honed from years of reading crowds, easily sensed Geralt’s discomfort. His face had become pinched with agitation and his usually calm eyes now flickered with uncertainty. Geralt raised his gaze to meet Jaskier’s, and he could read the unspoken plea written there.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. I’m right here,” He soothed, quickly finding a place on the bed next to the witcher even as he internally grasped at straws for what to do. He received no response, but he could still see Geralt’s distress. He was practically vibrating with it. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, completely at a loss. He watched as the witcher struggled to find the words, and his hand twitched towards the bard.

“Do you want me to hold you?” Overwhelmed, Geralt nodded quickly.

“I can do that,” He said, scooting across the bed to sit next to him. He pulled Geralt closer and wedged his leg behind and around him, situating them such that the witcher was sitting between his legs and leaning back on his chest.

“I can do that,” Jaskier was repeating it to himself, mostly, pulling his companion close. 

Geralt was spiraling. The fever was messing with his ability to think straight, and the clouding of his senses caused by the poppy’s milk was strong enough that he was quickly descending into a blind panic. Already his sense of smell, something he relied so much on, was gone. His limbs felt oddly detached from the rest of him. He felt trapped in his own body, and fear seized him in a sinister grip. If they were attacked right now, he would have no way to defend himself or his bard. He would be completely at the mercy of his enemies, helpless as he was.

Outwardly, Geralt’s distress was nearly invisible, the poppy’s milk rendering him somewhere near catatonic. He thanked Melitele that Jaskier was observant. The sedative was forcing his eyes closed of their own accord, and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip.

But Jaskier wasn’t safe. He needed to protect the bard. Jaskier couldn’t fight. Without his witcher to defend him, so many things could go wrong. He rallied all of his strength against the darkness, humming with alarm as it tried to take him.

“Geralt, dear, don’t fight it. It will only make things harder for you.” A soft hand was combing through his hair, but it had to be a trap, it  _ had  _ to--

A firm but gentle grip was turning his head just enough that his ear was pressed against something warm. A quick, regular thundering noise beat just underneath the surface. Geralt realized after a moment that the sound must have been Jaskier’s heartbeat, hammering against his ribcage. His witcher instincts were still screeching in alarm, telling him to  _ fightrunhidedefend,  _ but the steady drum of Jaskier’s heart had quieted them a bit. He tried to calm his animalistic responses, but the conflicting desires were enough to make his head spin. A low groan escaped his lips.

“Just...listen to my heart. Follow my breathing. You’re ok, this will pass.” Jaskier murmured, the tenor of his voice echoing faintly in his ears. Geralt could feel him rubbing warm circles into his chest, and the sensation grounded him. 

He felt the tension leaving his body without his permission, and the world around him faded into nothingness.

\---

Jaskier watched with worry as Geralt’s eyes rolled back. He had never seen him panic before; it was very unlike the witcher, and he berated himself again for indulging the fevered request. His companion clearly regretted the choice, if the adverse reaction was anything to go by. There was little to be done about it now, though, so he contemplated what to do next while trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at his gut. Geralt had lost consciousness, so it stood to reason that at least for the time being, anxiety would not be an issue. 

This left Jaskier in the uncomfortable position of being stuck at a standstill, unable to do anything to help and unwilling to sit by idly in the hopes that he would miraculously get better. An ear at the door told him that they were in those odd hours of the day where no creature was awake, far too late for taverns to be open and far too early for anyone to have awoken yet. Nothing stirred.

He glanced at the witcher again, eerily still in the moonlight. Geralt was usually a light sleeper, a result of years of training in his youth and decades of travel on the Path; he always kept one eye open and on the lookout for danger. Seeing him in such a deep state of unconsciousness just felt  _ wrong.  _ Jaskier returned to the bedside, retrieving the cloth that had been discarded earlier to wet it again. Placing a palm against Geralt’s forehead told him that he was still feverish, but it didn’t feel like it had gone up at all.

He resolved to continuously wipe down Geralt’s face and chest in hopes that the water would cool him down, even if it was only slightly. The low rattle in his lungs had not ceased, and truth be told Jaskier was far more concerned about  _ that  _ than the fever. However, he was no healer and versed in more physical issues; he could stitch up nearly any wound Geralt could throw at him, had set far more than his fair share of broken bones, and could stop almost anything from bleeding, but he was at a loss when it came to illness. Not exactly something that came up often, keeping company with a witcher. 

Of course, Geralt had cared for Jaskier a number of times when he had fallen ill. If their roles were reversed, he was willing to bet that he would already be well again and back to nagging Geralt incessantly. Which just went to prove how useless he could be at times. Jaskier knew his value as a travel companion, but even he was met with situations where he proved to be no help. This was clearly one of them. He pulled the washbasin up to the side of the bed. It was getting far more use as a stool than for its intended purpose. 

Geralt bared his teeth again, shifting slightly on the mattress.

“F’ckin...idiot.” He growled, twitching. Jaskier grasped his hand tightly, trying to assure the witcher that he was still there. No response came.

“Not  _ there,  _ you useless buffoon! Are you trying to get killed?” He jumped at the exclamation, puzzled. Jaskier was certain that the witcher was sleep talking, but it was not a common occurrence; in fact, he could not remember a single time that GEralt had ever talked in his sleep, even at his worst. It was quite endearing, and he might have enjoyed it if it weren’t for the situation.

“Fucking square up. Roach has more balls.”

Jaskier had to stifle his laughter.  _ Oh,  _ how he wished Geralt was as vocal in battle as he seemed to be in his dreams.  _ Square up?  _ As far as he was aware, the term had no meaning. 

“Damnable beef-witted eternal devil. Wait ‘til my sword’s up his arse, see if he laughs then.”

This time, Jaskier  _ did  _ laugh out loud.

“Oh, dear. When you are feeling better, we’re going to have a long discussion about  _ good  _ insults. Something you seem to sorely lack.” Honestly. Geralt had been alive for  _ multiple  _ of Jaskier’s own lifespans, and he couldn’t think up anything better than  _ eternal devil  _ and  _ fuck.  _ It was a little disappointing, though he had to give points for creativity. 

Geralt continued to mumble in his sleep, and Jaskier kept up the constant cycle of wringing out the cloth and wiping him down. The moon gradually slipped lower in the sky, and exhaustion took a firm, unrelenting grasp on the bard. The first birds emerged from their nests and filled the air with song, and he laid his head on the bed next to Geralt’s hand. Just a moment, and then he would get back up.

Just a few minutes.

\---

He felt like he had been swallowed by a selkie. Which, to be fair, was a real possibility. It had certainly happened before. But there was a distinct absence of the characteristic stench that came with selkie guts and whatever he was laying on certainly didn’t  _ feel  _ like a swamp.

Quiet snoring came from somewhere nearby, but opening his eyes would take a monumental effort that he didn’t feel like exerting quite yet. His head felt foggy; he’d been drugged. Whatever environment he was in was decidedly not hostile, though, or it would have already set his alarm bells ringing. Something spicy was in the air, and it smelled a lot like rosin and chamomile.

So it was Jaskier snoring, then. That meant an inn, because the birds were too muffled for them to be outdoors. And he couldn’t smell Roach, either. That begged the question: who had drugged him? The only conclusion he could draw was that someone had tried to poison his drink. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he would have smelled it. Faint memories tugged at him, but they were too hazy for him to make out. A sharp lance of pain behind his eyes reminded him rather rudely of the headache he’d tried to stave off, and it all came back rather quickly after that.

It didn’t take him long to decide that he would have preferred getting swallowed by a selkie. 

Last he remembered, he’d had quite the fever. He could still feel it hovering threateningly underneath his skin, ready to resurface at any moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to be concerned. Thoughts raced through his head before he could catch them, and concentrating too hard was bringing back the nausea from before. He cracked his eyes open and was rewarded with an assault of light that had him immediately aborting the effort, groaning.

Something jolted on the bed next to him, a loud clattering and a resounding  _ thud  _ coming milliseconds later. Alarmed, he sat bold upright, golden eyes shooting open painfully. 

Jaskier was lying on the floor, blinking up at him with an astonished expression. The washbasin lazily rolled across the floor behind him and his hair stuck up at odd angles in a way that told Geralt he had spent most of the night sleeping in the stool rather than in bed next to him.

“Jaskier, what the fuck?” He asked, voice coming out raw and rough.  _ Gods,  _ when had his throat started to hurt? He felt like he’d swallowed sand.

Jaskier sat up, rubbing grit out of his sleepy eyes. He’d only meant to rest his head for a second, why was the sun up?

_ “Gods,  _ I must have fallen asleep. What do you remember?” He asked hesitantly. 

“Noth-” Geralt was cut off, hacking coughs tearing through his throat like a thousand knives. The blood was roaring in his ears again, and his ribs were positively screaming, he could feel his face growing red and there was no  _ air-- _

_ “Fuck fuck fucking fuck, Godsdamnit Geralt, what am I supposed to DO-”  _ Jaskier’s panicked voice was in his ear, and he gripped the bard’s arm in a way that would most definitely leave fingerprint-shaped bruises, he’d need to apologize for that later, when he could properly  _ breathe,  _ and with a flash of white, he felt something give way, a muffled  _ crack-- _

Something cool was pressed to his lips, and he drank without thinking, and  _ finally,  _ the abhorrent scratching feeling died down. He took in a shuddering breath, and another, and another.

“Thank  _ Melitele.”  _ Geralt’s thoughts echoed the bard’s relieved sigh, but he didn’t speak again for fear of a repeat incident. Firm circles were being rubbed into his back, and he pressed into the touch. He let his head roll back to meet with the wall and closed his eyes.

“You had a fever. Quite a bad one, I might add. Somehow you convinced me to give you an unlabeled potion from your bag, and it wasn’t until  _ after  _ you took it that you told me it was poppy’s milk. And then you freaked out--lucky I could tell, really. Took me nearly an hour to calm you down from your panic enough for it to take effect. Honestly, Geralt. You can be a flaming idiot at times. I take that back, actually. Most of the time. And then you passed out, and I don’t know how to deal with a temperature in the summer, and you were so  _ hot,  _ and you just kept getting  _ hotter,  _ and nothing was helping-”

“Jaskier.” He paused in his triade, quickly checking Geralt over to see if he had somehow missed some horrible new development.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

_ I’m alright,  _ he left unspoken. He couldn’t be certain if he was past the worst yet. Definitely needed a healer, but that meant coin, and he didn’t have much to spare. It was probably safe to assume whatever village they were in didn’t despise witchers too much, because they’d allowed him into the inn. But he wasn’t about to get his hopes up.

“Where are we?” He finally asked, when he was sure that Jaskier wasn’t about to spiral into another rant.

“A couple hours’ ride from the lake. Rinde.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier shifted on the bed beside him, and he looked up sharply, taking in the exhausted appearance of the bard. Dark shadows sat heavy under his eyes and he looked disheveled in a way that was almost reminiscent of a brawl. Then Geralt’s eyes drifted down, and he caught sight of the black and blue marks around his neck.

Expression lighting with fury, he jerked forward, ignoring the protest of his side, and grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him closer for inspection. Jaskier complied, confused but not frightened.

Geralt traced the marks with feather-light touches before meeting Jaskier’s gaze, eyes burning with anger.

“Who did this?” His voice was low, dangerous. Jaskier only shook his head, a small smile gracing his features.

“It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” He made to get up, but Geralt locked an iron grip on his wrist.

“Jaskier! Tell me. I need to know.” Faint memories were stirring. He thought he might know the answer, but he wanted to hear it confirmed. Jaskier winced, looking uncertain. 

“Before I say anything, you had a fever, a  _ very high one-”  _

“I did this.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Geralt, you weren’t in your right mind. I don’t blame you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that  _ I did this.”  _ Jaskier huffed and turned his body to face Geralt. 

“Geralt, dear.  _ My dearest witcher.  _ Don’t you  _ dare  _ start blaming yourself for this. Fighting off a century of instinct to defend yourself would already be hard enough, but you were compromised by the fever and only half-conscious. That’s why I’m telling you,  _ I don’t blame you.”  _

Geralt remained silent, but the shame consuming him didn’t abate. He nodded slowly. Jaskier didn’t believe it for a minute, but it was a conversation for a different time, when he was sure that the witcher was recovering.

“You need a healer.” He said, standing up. Geralt only nodded agreeably. By the tone of his voice, Geralt knew better than to argue. It would get him nowhere, and with his supply of potions nearly depleted, there was no guarantee that he would heal without help before their welcome was up. He shifted slightly and hissed, pressing a hand to his side.

“Might’ve cracked a rib,” he grumbled, using his fingers to test each of them. Sure enough, one gave way painfully and he growled in irritation.

“Right. Well. I suppose all the more reason to find the healer, then,” Jaskier said, forcing a light tone as he stood up and set the washbasin upright. 

“Need coin.” Geralt huffed, trying not to waste valuable breath on too many words.

“That’s no concern of yours, my brave, stupid witcher. I’m more than capable of earning enough coin to keep us both comfortable while you recover.” He set about putting a pot of water over the fire to boil for tea as he spoke.

“That’s-”

_ “No,  _ Geralt. That’s one argument I’ll not hear.” His hands had taken up residence on his hips, and Geralt yielded. As soon as the bard took on that stance, he could descend into a tirade that would easily last hours. Geralt pressed his lips together and leaned back gingerly.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Golden eyes flashed defiantly, but it was hard to look threatening when he was laying in a bed and Jaskier was practically towering over him. He felt irritatingly small and wondered idly if this was how most humans felt when he stood near them. The water came to a boil quickly, and Jaskier set the tea (chamomile) on the table beside him to steep.

“Can I trust you to stay alive while I go out and try to find someone who can help?”

_ “Jaskier,”  _ He growled, lip twitching.

_ “Can I?”  _ He replied, echoing the witcher’s tone. Geralt huffed, trying to ignore the way the world spun as he did so, and nodded tightly. Jaskier relaxed slightly and a smile crossed his face.

“Excellent! I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Do try to get some rest.” He said, and then he was gone, lock clicking in place as the door shut behind him.

\---

The inkeep, willing as she was, was positively  _ horrid  _ at giving directions. Although she had done her best to direct him to the town healer, Jaskier could not make head nor tail out of the instructions she had provided. After several dead ends, he found himself at the apothecary.

He hadn’t intended for it to be his first stop, but as it turned out, that trip would have been rather useless. Jaskier, with his limited knowledge of anything alchemy related and only a basic understanding of medicinal herbs, had been completely out of his depth. Not one to give up quickly, he asked around the market in the hope of finding someone who might be more helpful. Armed with the new directions he had gotten from the blacksmith, he quickly found his way to an encampment on the border of Rinde where the town healer resided, an elf. He was quick to assure Jaskier that he had received the best medical education, right in Rinde. The bard was inclined to believe the man, if the massive collection of ingredients was anything to go by.

Chireadan was the name he had used to introduce himself. Jaskier had shaken his hand with enthusiasm, flying quickly through his explanation of Geralt’s sickness.

“A witcher? Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken? Come down with an illness? Surely, you’re mistaken.”

“Know any other white-haired witchers in the area? Geralt has been my closest friend and companion for nearly two decades. The fool had been traversing the continent for the better part of the season with nary a wink of rest since winter ended. Once you see the sorry state he’s in, you’ll believe me.

“And just for posterity’s sake, he hates that name.”

“Which name?” Chireadan asked, gathering his bags.

“Butcher. Despises it. It’d do my business a great deal of good, too, if you stopped using it.”

“All right. Give me a moment, and then we can go take care of your White Wolf.” Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Too often, he dealt with healers who would reject the job as soon as they discovered who their patient would be, which was why Jaskier had become so versed in the ways of healing. He’d never dealt with an elf before, save for that one time in Posada, and he was happy to find that this one was a sight friendlier upon introduction.

Chireadan went about collecting an assortment of bottled and herbs, stowing them into his bag with practiced efficiency. The tables in the tent were covered in such a multitude of glasses and vials that Jaskier could hardly see the wood underneath. He wondered how the elf kept track of everything. He knew just enough of the basics to be able to identify some of the substances, but he would have been fresh out of luck trying to heal Geralt on his own. 

“Anything I can help with?” Jaskier fidgeted. He hated feeling useless. The elf shot him a curious look.

“Unfortunately, no.” He tucked a few more sachets of herbs into his bag and stood up, “Besides, I’m ready now. Lead the way.”

The pair ducked out of the ten, and Jaskier set a brisk pace towards the inn. He was apprehensive and on edge, unhappy with the length of time Geralt had been left alone in their room to brood. Anything could have happened in the hours he’d been gone. Though he had seemed more lucid that morning, his fevers seemed to run in unpredictable cycles. Jaskier hadn’t quite figured out what sort of timing said cycles ran on, only that they were brutal. Images of Geralt tossing in his sleep the night before came unbidden to his mind, and he picked at his fingernails absently.

The inkeep greeted the pair with a terse not when they entered the building. It was midday, but it was dark enough inside that it could have been midnight. The atmosphere was cheery enough, though the fire crackling in the hearth had made the air stuffy and thick. Jaskier, feeling inexplicably claustrophobic, felt his heart kick up a notch. He led Chireadan up the stairs, memories of all but shoving his white-haired companion up them passing before his eyes.

“Geralt, I’ve brought the healer!” He called through the door, turning the key in the lock as he did so. It would do no good to have a repeat of the incident from the previous night. The bruises on his neck tingled as if in agreement.

He opened the door to find golden eyes gazing at him shrewdly, unfocused but clearly at least semi-aware. He had one hand resting threateningly on the hilt of his steel sword where Jaskier had left it propped next to the bed. Jaskier gave him a slight nod, signalling that nothing was amiss, and stepped aside to let Chireadan into the room.

Geralt let his eyes sweep up and down the elf, sizing up his potential as a threat, before deciding that he was safe. If he was surprised at the Chireadan’s race, he gave no indication of such. The smell of herbs and cordials wafted from him, and he certainly did not put off the threatening demeanor of a fighter. Geralt pulled his hand back onto the bed next to him and descended into a chorus of raspy coughs. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows at the healer, seeming to say  _ I told you so,  _ before crossing the room in quick strides to retrieve the tea he had left on the table, now cold. He pressed the cup to Geralt’s lips and coerced him into drinking as the elf set his bag down and began to unpack it. Geralt glared at the bard over the edge of the cup, failing to deduce the strange exchange between the two. 

When he was done with the tea, he handed the cup off to Jaskier, who immediately went to work preparing a new pot to put over the dying flames of the fire. He ducked out of the room to retrieve water, and Chireadan spoke for the first time since his arrival.

“How did this happen?” It was a loaded question, leaving Geralt floundering for how to answer it.

“Not wasting time with introductions, I see. I take it Jaskier has already introduced me.”

“He has. I am Chireadan.”

“I don’t know how it started.” The healer raised a brow at him and gestured vaguely at his situation.

“Witchers don’t fall ill without good reason. There must be some cause.”

“Haven’t been sleeping. S’pose it finally caught up.” He shrugged his shoulders, hissing as the movement jostled his cracked rib. Chireadan cocked an eyebrow.

“Cracked rib. Coughing.” A terse nod, and a roll of bandages was added to the growing pile of things on the table. 

“For how long haven’t you been sleeping?” The question made Geralt pause. It had been at least a month, but he couldn’t be sure of an exact amount.

“Long enough. Least a month.”

“Any clue as to why?” Geralt’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Chireadan tried not to flinch at the scrutiny, grinding herbs in a small mortar as he questioned. The sound was oddly loud in the absence of their voices. For a while, neither man broke the uncomfortable silence.

“You needn’t share, but whatever the reason it must be solved. Even witchers weren’t built to go without rest for that long.”

“It’s multiple reasons. Some of which  _ can’t  _ be solved so easily.” His thoughts drifted briefly to his Child Surprise. 

“Others...well.” Geralt’s eyes flicked to the door and it didn’t go unnoticed by Chireadan, who smiled easily. 

“Ah. I recognize that look. I know how you feel.” Geralt’s eyes widened comically and he jerked to face the healer.

_ “What?”  _ Chireadan nearly broke into laughter at the alarmed, territorial expression on his patient’s face. He waved a hand placatingly, struggling to hide his amusement. 

“Not for your bard, witcher. My love belongs entirely to someone else.” He chuckled, watching as Geralt settled uneasily back into the bed.

“You’re making me uncomfortable.”

“You  _ do  _ love him...yes?” He was pouring the now powdered herbs into a small container, and then he tilted small amounts of liquid from a number of vials into the potion. Geralt hummed noncommittally. His own feelings still confused him greatly, not because he wasn’t certain of them but because he was quite certain he didn’t deserve them. Admitting as much out loud would be a disappointment he wasn’t sure he was ready for. Chireadan tutted knowingly from his spot next to the table and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Come now. It’s apparent to everyone except yourself, it seems.” Geralt growled, knowing there was truth to the elf’s words. He had already admitted his feelings, prompting Jaskier’s own confession, but the fact that he was in love was never really the issue. Once he had gotten over the initial shock of  _ having feelings,  _ back in Blaviken with Renfri, it was easy to come to terms with the idea that he could love a man. He had known for quite some time that he had feelings beyond friendship for the bard.

“Of course.” Was what he said instead.

“Well, it is obvious that the feelings are mutual. What is the problem, them?” Geralt allowed his silence to answer the question, and the healer pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Self-loathing is not a good look on you.” Geralt scoffed in disbelief. The elf had known him for all of ten minutes and was already an expert on what did and didn’t suit him.

“Don’t waste your breath, elf. The bard deserves someone far better than a  _ witcher.”  _ He spat the title with disgust.

Jaskier chose that moment to come bursting through the door, carrying a pot of water for Geralt’s tea and a pitcher of ale for himself. He was decidedly blind to the heavy atmosphere in the room. 

“So, Chireadan. Will you be able to help him?” He asked as he set the pitcher down on the table.

“Oh, yes. He will be fine as long as he actually  _ gets some rest.”  _ The last phrase was spoken pointedly and with a glare at Geralt. The witcher growled and closed his eyes, and Jaskier finally picked up on the tension between the two. At a loss, he went back to settling the pot over the flames. 

Silently, Chireadan carried the potion he had made to the bed, where he helped Geralt drink it, unflinching under the golden glare of the witcher. Jaskier watched the exchange with fascination. Geralt’s glowering could reduce grown men to trembling messes, but the elf didn’t seem fazed. 

He then reached for the roll of bandages on the table and deftly wrapped Geralt’s ribs, nudging the witcher forward so that he could wind it around his back. 

“I’ll leave you with enough medicine for the next few days. You won’t notice much of a difference with the fever tonight, but it will help with his cough. He needs to take it at least twice a day, and if he’s not better by the time that’s gone, come find me. I’ll be around. And Geralt,” he turned to fix the witcher with a scowl of his own,

_ “Remember what we talked about.”  _ Geralt huffed rudely and lifted his lip enough to show one of his fangs before rolling over. Chireadan, unperturbed, placed his hand on the door to leave.

“How much do we owe you?” Jaskier asked as he was about to open it.

“Nevermind about that, just make sure he takes care, since he is incapable of doing that himself.” And with that, the healer left. Jaskier was left floundering, feeling like he had missed quite a bit in the short time he’d been gone. Silence prevailed until the bard could take it no longer.

“Geralt, what in the name of Melitele’s lovely arse was  _ that  _ about?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier rolled his eyes in exasperation.

The water was boiling, and he used the gloves by the fireplace to remove it from the coals. He poured it over one of his chamomile tea bags, retrieved from his belongings, and handed the cup off to Geralt, who took it with a pleased grunt. Jaskier took a tankard of his own and filled it with the ale he had brought up earlier, sitting cross-legged on the bed to face the witcher.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Because there’s nothing to answer.” A gulp of the tea, and Geralt hissed as the scalding water touched his lips.

_ “Fuck!”  _

“Your brooding says otherwise, dear.”

He finished the tea.

“Give me some of that damn ale, then we’ll talk.”


	5. Can't make you bleed if I'm alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier talk. There are copious amounts of ale involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! This chapter marks the conclusion of the first fanfic I’ve ever written. I’ve already started my next one, so you’ll be seeing more from me. This chapter is quite a bit shorter than my previous ones, as it’s mainly a wrap-up. There’s still plenty of hurt/comfort in this one with a small dose of fluff at the very end.  
> If you’re interested in more of my fic, keep an eye on my AO3! I've got a companion piece to this one in the works, featuring Geralt talking about his feelings with the Bitchers (TM) at Kaer Morhen. I'm also already working on another witcher fic. It will also be multi-chapter, and there’s a decent chance that it will be a good deal longer than this one. I don’t have a lot of the details worked out and I’ll probably just let it take me where it wants to go.  
> Thank you to everyone who’s been reading this since the beginning, it’s been a joy getting into fanfic and meeting all of you lovely people! Y’all are very kind and welcoming, and it’s because of you that I’ll keep writing. Sending love.

Geralt had finished either his fourth or fifth tankard of ale before the tension seeped from him enough to talk. Relaxation didn’t come easy to him, and it was only thanks to the ale that he could even look Jaskier in the eye at the moment. A couple of hours had passed in semi-comfortable silence, with Geralt’s brooding only darkening the atmosphere  _ slightly  _ more than usual. Jaskier was itching to question him, but he knew that it would lead nowhere until Geralt was ready to speak. The bard questioned the wisdom of allowing Geralt to continue to drink, but the medicine seemed to be doing its job and his cough had all but disappeared in the time that had passed since Chireadan had left. Geralt was lounging comfortably on the bed, while Jaskier had stayed seated next to the fire alternating between slightly overwarm and comfortable. He was worried that if he moved to the bed, Geralt would clam up for the rest of their stay, and that was something he desperately wanted to avoid. 

Jaskier had stripped off his doublet and shirt long ago, the garments laying discarded on one of the chairs next to the bed. Geralt stared at the wall behind Jaskier’s shoulder as though if he watched it long enough, it would disintegrate. 

Finally, the witcher rolled his shoulders in a way that seemed to precede conversation, and Jaskier perked up from the doze he had begun to settle into, leaning against the wall next to the hearth. 

“That damn elf should be more careful with his words.”

Well. That certainly hadn’t been what Jaskier had thought he would lead with. All that buildup, and for what? Geralt’s dramatic flare could use some work, he thought with disappointment. While it confirmed his suspicions that the conversation between Chireadan and Geralt had been the cause of his sudden change in mood, it hardly answered his real question. Still, he didn’t interrupt, because it seemed as though he was only getting started. Jaskier raised a questioning brow and took another pull from his tankard, definitely feeling more than just the buzz now. He wasn’t entirely sure what number he was on, only that he really needed to stop trying to keep up with Geralt’s witchery tolerance for alcohol. 

“Thinks he knows about love. Maybe he does, I can’t tell how old he is. Damn elves.”  _ That  _ caught Jaskier’s attention. Love. The topic was clearly weighing heavily on Geralt, and the bard settled back again, preparing for a long, stiff discussion. The witcher was uncomfortable with any emotion besides anger--no wonder he had drank so much ale. He tried to ignore the anxious pit growing in his stomach, but his thoughts kept leading him to the worst-case-scenario: what if Geralt hadn’t meant it the previous night? What if this was it, and he finally told the bard to pack his bags and leave for good? He couldn’t very well kick Jaskier out of his own room, but it was the principle of the matter. 

Geralt scoffed and drained the rest of his drink, quickly reaching for the pitcher to refill. Soon they would need to call up the maids to ask for more, Jaskier noted. 

“You’re far too good to me, Jaskier.” Ale splashed messily into his tankard, and Jaskier stood up to fill his own. This was not a conversation he intended to have even remotely sober. Clearly, Geralt was in the same line of thinking. 

“Why do you believe that, Geralt?”

“I’m a witcher.” Jaskier resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the familiar self-deprecating line.

“Yes, and? What does that have to do with the matter?” This time, it was Geralt who fought to keep his exasperation from showing on his face. He seemed to believe the matter was obvious, and while Jaskier could guess what he was getting at, he was also being purposefully difficult about it. He needed Geralt to admit it out loud so he could stop grasping at straws. 

“All I’m capable of doing is hurting, maiming, killing. I’m gruff. Unrefined. I anger too quickly and words fail me too often. You--you’re soft, and kind, and everywhere you go, smiles follow you like you’re a damn ray of sunshine. You  _ are  _ a damn ray of sunshine. You can appreciate the finer things in life. You like a warm bed, a roof over your head. You write songs and at times your voice is so nice I can scarcely believe it to be human. That--that’s something I can never measure up to, lark.” Jaskier’s jaw had nearly hit the floor. The ale had certainly loosened Geralt’s tongue--he wasn’t sure he had ever heard Geralt say so much in one breath. Before he could find the words to respond, he was continuing. 

“Look at my hands, bard.” He held one out aggressively, fixing it with a look of disgust and sloshing ale over the side of his tankard uncaringly. 

“Rough. Scarred. Not soft. These hands have  _ killed  _ people, Jask. They’ve very nearly killed you. And they’re certainly not fit for tender touches.” Geralt was trying so very hard to get to the point, but he couldn’t seem to find a way to put it into an order that made sense. The intention behind his words was clear enough, but again, Jaskier wanted to hear him say it aloud. He allowed the oppressive silence to fill the room, for once not giving Geralt the mercy of his endless chatter.

Geralt sent him a pleading look, as if he understood what he was doing and was very much  _ not  _ enjoying it. Jaskier remained stubbornly opaque, pretending not to understand. He nodded encouragingly. Geralt growled, frustrated, perturbed. He closed his fist, opened it again, let his hand fall limply back into his lap. Another swig of ale that turned quickly into gulps, and then the tankard was empty again. Jaskier allowed his gaze to bore into Geralt for a few more seconds before rising to his feet and opening the door, giving him a moment’s reprieve while he called for another pitcher.

Geralt stared incredulously at the bard’s back, frustrated with his inability to form sentences that made sense. How was he supposed to communicate clearly to Jaskier that he could never be enough?Jaskier ducked back into the room, this time holding not one, but  _ two  _ pitchers of ale, and winked at him triumphantly. 

“If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right and get absolutely plastered.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at the statement, but Jaskier seemed to have picked up on his anxiety and decided that the best course of action was to get them both properly smashed. Words from years before flitted through his head:  _ I’ll not suffer tonight sober…  _

They would certainly be true this night. Geralt couldn’t argue with Jaskier’s sound logic, and grunted affirmatively when he offered to refill his empty tankard.

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I want you to know that no matter what it is I promise to still be there for you. I haven’t stuck by your side for all of this time just for some healer’s unprompted advice to drive me away.”

“I’ll drink to that.” They knocked their drinks together sloppily, Jaskier perhaps feeling its effects a bit more at this point than Geralt was and spilling a few drops over the edge and onto the floor. Geralt raised his eyebrows in challenge and proceeded to slam his ale back. Jaskier attempted to follow suit and quickly flagged, wiping his mouth with a grimace.

“You’re a sight heavier than I am, Geralt. It seems a bit unfair that you have to drink nearly twice the amount I do to feel the same effect. If it’s alright with you, I think I’ll let you catch up.” Geralt nearly laughed as he finished his seventh tankard of ale for the night, waving off Jaskier’s excuses.

“I’m well aware of your human tolerance for drink, no need for explanation.” A mischievous twinkle sparkled in his golden eyes. Jaskier placed a hand on his chest in mock hurt, gasping loudly.

“Geralt, you wound me! I could match you drink for drink if I so desired, but it would be in your best interest if I was a functioning member of society tomorrow. Truth be known, I am saving you from the pain of dealing with my hungover self come morning!” Geralt merely growled, playfully shoving Jaskier. The witcher continued to drink, and the tense atmosphere dissolved in favor of friendly banter as the fire burned lower.

Finally, after they had emptied the second pitcher of ale and Geralt was drunk enough that he had started to feel fuzzy and Jaskier’s giggling had become  _ far  _ too contagious for any shred of sobriety to be left, he determined that he could speak without the burden of fear. He locked eyes with the bard, sitting across the bed from him with his legs crossed. His hair was tousled in a way that Geralt found dangerously endearing and his eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Jaskier. I’m going to say something but I--” he sighed heavily, “I need you to let me finish before you respond.” Jaskier set his ale aside, and Geralt copied the movement, placing his hands in his lap and fidgeting.

“Speak, witcher dear. I’m listening.” Geralt took a deep breath, and did just that.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. All of the years that you’ve spent dogging my trail and ignoring my most creative attempts to drive you away have been blessings. I’m not good with words in the same way that you are. You are--you’re like sunshine and dandelions, music on a gloomy day. Even when I treat you like shit, you stay by my side. You deserve to be happy, to have a home. But you just keep walking by my side like you enjoy it. Like I’m some hero. But...well. I’m  _ not.  _ Blood and misery are all I leave in my wake.

“People look at me, and they see a monster, because  _ that’s what I am.”  _ He held out his hands in front of him. 

“All these do is cause pain. They’re rough from years of holding swords. They’re not meant for things like love and tenderness. My eyes, my teeth, my hair? All hideous reminders of my monstrosity. Nothing about me is soft or kind, Jaskier, I’m an affront to nature. I can’t give you what you deserve. What I’m trying to say is--well, damnit.  _ I’m not good enough for you.”  _ Geralt finished, stoutly refusing to look Jaskier in the eye. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken for so long uninterrupted. His throat felt like sandpaper, and he swiftly finished off the rest of his ale. 

A log popped loudly in the fireplace. The silence in the room positively  _ screamed.  _ The individual threads in the mattress suddenly became of extreme interest to Geralt, but even as he counted them he also counted the seconds of time that stretched into eternity.

Then, warm fingertips found their way under his chin and tilted his head up.

“Geralt, dear. Please look at me.” There was something brittle about the bard’s voice. Everything inside of him screamed in protest, but he lifted his gaze to meet Jaskier’s. Blue eyes flickered quickly through a litany of emotions. There was anger, and Geralt felt himself flinch infinitesimally, but then it settled into a deep, profound sadness. Tears threatened to spill, and he internally kicked himself at seeing what his words had done. 

“You really do believe that, don’t you?” There was no pity or disappointment. Instead, just raw sorrow and a hint of understanding.

“I know that no amount of pretty words will be enough proof for you that you are very,  _ very  _ much good enough for me. But I suppose I am going to try regardless, because that’s what I do.

“I’ll start with the obvious: I know my worth, Geralt. Blind and bitchy and gruff as you may be, I know that there’s rarely any meaning behind the coarse words. And I certainly wouldn’t have wasted sixteen years of my life following you around if I felt that I deserved better--which leads me to my second point! It’s impossible for me to deserve better because you are quite simply perfect in my eyes. That’s not to say you don’t have flaws, that’s to say they have no effect on how important you are to me. Even the things you hate about yourself, I adore. You are hardly a monster. We both know plenty of humans that can pass for monsters far more easily than yourself. 

“Your hands are most certainly capable of creating more than pain, and I refuse to hear argument on that subject. How many times have you patched me up when I’ve gotten in the way of an enemy, be it monster or man? You starve yourself of touch, but the gentleness with which you treat me on those occasions has shown me there is little foundation for such deprivation. Even Roach knows you to be a gentle man. You have the moral compass of a saint, and I’ve seen the way you agonize over decisions even when you are treated as a lesser being. 

“And, Geralt, gods above, I find it very hard to believe that you haven’t seen the way I look at you. Your eyes are mesmerizing. I could write hundreds of ballads about the beauty of your eyes, of your hair. Don’t even get me started on those damn fangs, fucking sexy as they are. I’ve spent many a night lying awake dreaming of the things you could do with those teeth if you only had the chance.

“It’s bollocks that the world has brought you so low you can’t see your own worth. I have no way to prove to you that you are good enough for me. I can only tell you how I feel, and show you with my actions, and hope that it is enough. In return, though, that means you have to listen.” 

Geralt blinked, and looked as though he might turn tail and run as far as his legs could carry him, and he very well might have if he hadn’t been in such a sorry state. The ale in his system and the fever slowly crawling back into his blood was enough to prevent a hasty retreat, and he found himself at a loss now that he was unable to run from his feelings. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed nervously, unsure of how to respond to the speech Jaskier had just delivered.

“Jaskier, I...you…” Jaskier was struck with the thought that he looked very much like a fish out of water in that moment, gaping and grasping for words. He decided to take mercy; Geralt had already spoken far more than usual that night, and it would be cruel to allow him to continue to wallow for a response.

“You don’t need to say anything, dear. It will come eventually.” Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, and in a rare show of need, tentatively opened his arms and waved Jaskier closer. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, the bard happily launched himself into Geralt’s arms, hugging him with as much force as he dared, avoiding his broken rib. Now was as good a time as any to start with that whole convincing Geralt of his worth thing. 

Somehow they ended up laying down, Geralt resting his chin on Jaskier’s head. They were tangled together on top of the blanket, drunk and content. A low rumble vibrated through Geralt’s chest, and the bard smiled into his witcher. He inched up on the mattress until they were face to face, foreheads touching. Geralt’s eyes were half-lidded, and he eyed Jaskier with something akin to hunger. 

Jaskier could take a hint as well as the next man, and they tumbled into a messy kiss in seconds. Geralt nipped at his lips and a delightful shiver went up his spine. He chuckled into Geralt’s mouth and pulled away, eyeing the witcher, _ his witcher, _ with wonder. 

“What?” He grumbled, annoyed that they had stopped. 

“Just. Can’t believe that I got this lucky. I have my very own witcher, and an incredibly sexy one at that.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. In the next moment, Geralt had pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his shoulders easily. He stopped before going any further, looking for signs of discomfort from Jaskier. He was beautifully flushed underneath him, looking surprised but not at all uncomfortable. 

“Geralt, dear, I’ve been thinking about this moment for years. Do get on with it.” Geralt could understand  _ that  _ clearly enough, and he kissed Jaskier with passion as they both fought to get their pants off. 

___

Later, when they both lay panting in the bed sated and blissful, Jaskier spoke. Not that he had ever stopped, endlessly praising Geralt throughout the deed between kisses. 

“You certainly know how to put those teeth of yours to use.” The evidence was written all over Jaskier’s neck and torso in the form of tiny marks. Geralt growled good-naturedly and whuffed into his hair. 

The witcher smelt of salt and sweat, and he was slightly too warm against Jaskier’s body, but the bard felt no concern. Chireadan’s medicine had worked wonders for Geralt’s cough, and combined with a full day of rest it was obvious he was on the mend. And Geralt certainly hadn’t shown any signs of exhaustion during their romp.

“I could get used to this, you know.” He murmured, smoothing his thumb over Geralt’s cheek. Amber eyes cracked open with amusement, and he mumbled something in reply.

“What was that, dear?” Geralt bared a fang in mock annoyance and threw an arm over Jaskier’s torso, pulling him close. When he spoke next, Jaskier felt it more than heard it.

“Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Edit June 5, 20: I haven't forgotten this series! If you're waiting for more, rest assured that there is at least one more coming, maaaaaybe two. I'm still working on fleshing that bit out. Thanks for sticking with it!


End file.
